Fear and Loathing
by hockeygoalie1992
Summary: A history of violence, brutality and mercilessness surrounds the boy known as the Wraith, a name spoken in the hushed whispers of the criminal underground. But just who is the boy beneath the hood? What lies behind those haunted green eyes?
1. New Kid in Town

**Disclaimer: I don't own the **_**Harry Potter**_** series or DC comics****, nor do I claim rights to any of their characters.**

**I'm back, please see my profile for the full explanation. And a special 'thank you' to Heliosion. He knows why.**

**Chapter 1: New Kid in Town**

I'm not sure why I even bother looking at my reflection. I look the same today as I did yesterday and the day before. Quite frankly, I would save myself an enormous amount of time if I just started my day by accepting that I look like a terribly dirty fourteen-year-old boy and went about my business.

Honesty is the best policy, as they say.

But here I am, looking at my reflection in the window of this coffee shop; I'm not sure what name the owners gave it, I haven't bothered checking. Hell, I've never been inside, not that I could actually go in and order anything. It's rather difficult to do when you're dirt poor.

I'm rambling to myself. Wonderful. Perhaps I really am as crazy as the mothers in my old neighborhood used to say as they gossiped with one another. But, I digress. I turn my focus from the disorganized jumble of thoughts to my reflection once more. I can't help but heave a sigh. How depressing.

My jet-black hair is as unruly as ever, my skin is nearly as pale as a sheet of computer paper, I'm probably too thin and much too short for my age, but I'll chalk that up to the malnutrition I suffered in my younger years and the constant fighting that I've engaged in. The face in the reflection is one I doubt even a mother could love; There is no sign of emotion, nor any flicker of something hidden in my eyes. My face is as blank and expressionless as a mannequin in a clothing store window. Not that it's much to look at, anyways. I don't really look all that special. There are only two things that stand out on my face; my eyes and the lightning bolt shaped scar on my forehead.

Of all of my features, I hated my eyes the most. They once were a unique shade of emerald green, unique but normal. But ever since that day five years ago, the beautiful, green irises glowed a sickly green; sort of like a cat's eyes in the dark. The mere sight of my glowing irises has made grown men break out in a cold sweat before my eyes.

As for the oddly shaped scar, I'm not really sure how I got that one. I have plenty of scars on my face and body, but that is the only one that I'm not quite sure of its origins.

If I remember correctly, my relatives in Surrey, whom I lived with until I was about eight or nine, used to tell me that I received it in a car crash. Or was it that my parents literally dropped me on my head? Both seem like something they'd say; I suppose that I could always say that my past is multiple choice.

That actually sounds like something a murdering psychopath would say. I shake my head and move on to survey my clothes. Well, they look more like tattered rags than clothes.

The soles of my shoes are just about to fall out the bottom, my jeans are faded and frayed, not to mention the blood stains that are splattered randomly, my white t-shirt is too small for me, and that's saying something. The damn thing isn't even completely white anymore, it's littered with so many different shades of reds and browns that I'm not quite sure what is blood stain and what is dirt. Oh well, I guess that just means that I need to raid a dumpster and hope that I find something to fit me.

The last article of clothing is the one thing that I refuse to discard; it's my most valuable possession. Much like the rest of my attire, its condition is, well, horrible but it's still the only thing of value I have. It's the only thing that I've every kept as a trophy, a memento of one of my deeds.

A hoodie. My most prized possession is a faded, royal blue zip up hoodie. It was given to me during my brief time in Toronto, Ontario; I had just saved a little girl from being kidnapped by a known child molester as she was walking through the park. Upon returning her to her understandably worried parents, they insisted that they do something to repay me. No matter how many times I refused, no matter how much I assured them that I didn't help people in exchange for money or other rewards, they would not be swayed.

I do believe that was the first time I'd ever been thanked in person. Usually, the local and national media reported that I'd sent a bunch of criminals to the emergency rooms and speculated on whether or not I truly was a hero. The fact that most, if not all, of my victims were left in a comatose state, only responding by shrieking in terror as they were forced to live their worst fears probably had something to do with that. But, back to my slightly more positive memory.

The parents looked as if they'd be deeply upset if they didn't repay me in some way, my blank expression and tattered appearance only added to their desire. They even extended the offer to adopt me. Now that was a shock! I had always been told that I was a burden when living with my own relatives. Alas, I've never trusted adults; they always say that they want to help and that I should come to them if I have a problem with bullies, and then end up either doing nothing or taking the bullies' side.

Chalk another one up for the neighborhood gossip committee.

I declined the adoption offer, but knew that I needed to think of something that they could help me with. Then it hit me, it was the middle of winter and I didn't have anything to protect me from the cold. The father considered my request, a bit shocked that I would simply ask for something to keep me warm, before pulling his car keys out of his pocket and extended an offer to take me to a clothing store.

Needless to say, I couldn't decline that one without seeming incredibly rude, even if I really didn't want anything in return for my actions. When we arrived at the store, I was surprised at the amount of clothing in one place. There was just so much! I'd never seen most of the styles or different color combinations before. I'd never even learned to match my own clothes!

The mother asked me what type of jacket I wanted, but I honestly had no idea. I wanted something that would keep me warm, but wouldn't hinder me when fighting off criminals. The prospect of aiding my vigilantism didn't sit well with either of the adults, but they kept their word and tried to find something to my liking. As we perused the clothing racks, I noticed the father's eyes light up as I looked at a royal blue zip up hoodie with a white maple leaf printed on the front. Across the body of the leaf, the words "Toronto Maple Leafs" were written in blue letters.

I asked what a "Toronto Maple Leaf" was, not expecting him to give me a lengthy explanation of the history of their local professional hockey club. Apparently, the team had been around since around 1917 and was named for a Canadian military division from World War I. He did admit, with a bit of frustration, that the team hadn't won the Stanley Cup, which I learned was the trophy awarded at the end of their playoff tournament, since 1967.

He also muttered some rather unflattering things about a person named Wayne Gretzky, something about "high sticking" in the Western Conference Finals. I didn't know what any of that meant, but I kept my curiosity to myself and decided that I would take the jacket. After our business in the store was complete, they tried to persuade me to join them for dinner, for just one night. I may have stopped going to school when I was eight, but I'm no fool. One night turns into two quite easily; after all, I was only supposed to be a vigilante for just one night. They had done more than enough for me.

I do hope that the Leafs find some way to return to their former glory, if only to give that family something to cheer about.

With a shake of my head, I brought myself out of my little trip down memory lane and looked through the window for the first time. Three teenage girls seated at the nearest table were staring back at me through narrowed eyes and muttering to one another out of the corners of their mouths. I didn't need my empathy to know why they were looking at me in such a manner. They were disgusted with my state of dress and pale complexion; they don't really bother me, I've grown used to such glares and murmured comments.

I turn my gaze from the shop window, looking for something less hostile. To my left, little more than twenty or twenty-five feet from where I'm standing, a young boy is chattering happily to his mother about something he did in school. I watch them interact, curious as to how a real mother and child act. Observing family relationships is a habit of mine, I've always been curious as to whether or not the Dursleys treated me the way all families treat their children.

Based on the smile on the mother's face and the joyful tone in her voice, they didn't. That makes this the ninety-seventh example in favor of my hypothesis: The Dursleys hadn't treated me like most families treat children. Even in the instances of abuse due to intoxication that I'd witnessed, and even had to intervene to prevent permanent injury to a spouse or child, the family members genuinely cared for one another despite their faults.

I'm beginning to think that the results for my little experiment are a tad one-sided.

I watched, with no shortage of fascination, as the woman kneeled down and wrapped her arms around her son's shoulders, embracing his body to hers. If my memory of the definition found in an old dictionary is correct, this was a "hug".

I've committed the definition to memory, as it is something that I've never experience nor had any prior knowledge of. "Hug: Noun - An act of holding someone tightly in one's arms, typically to express affection." The last word was also something that I'm not familiar with: affection.

"Noun: 1. A feeling of fondness or liking. 2. Physical expressions of those feelings." I certainly don't recall anything such as this being shown to me, other than the family from Toronto. Or perhaps that was gratitude?

I watched the two interact, noting the boy's contended smile as he reciprocated the gesture. I can't help but wonder how that feels. People have told me that love and affection are emotions, feelings. They make people feel warm and happy inside. In an attempt to imitate the gesture and experience those feelings for myself, I lift my arms and wrap myself in them, resting my hands on opposite shoulders and giving myself a tight, but comfortable, squeeze. I feel a bit warmer, but I don't think that's the "warm inside" feeling. I don't feel happy and I certainly don't feel any form of love or affection. Why?

Why does the little boy less than ten yards from me seem so happy that he could float? Why do I feel emptiness as I watch and attempt to replicate this feeling? Why do I only feel a slight twinge of jealousy and loneliness, when I want to be happy?

Why _can't_ I feel these "warm" emotions?

As I continue to ponder this, I notice a flutter of movement out of the corner of my right eye, it's coming from the alley. I turn to investigate, and feel a rush of anger. I quickly smother the emotion, that way I don't lose control of my powers due to a temper tantrum, and assess the situation. Two men in jeans and black hoodies, one armed with a knife, the other with a baseball bat, are mugging a woman. Suddenly, the one with the knife begins to pull on her shirt and grope her with his right hand. I stand corrected; they're _molesting_ her.

I'll be sure to break that hand.

She sobs and pleads with them to let her go, to take all of her money but not to do this. "Please, God, don't do this! Somebody help!"

Perhaps I'll break more than just his hand.

As I walk toward them, I take a quick glance at the people walking along the sidewalk. No one is moving to stop them. No one is even acknowledging that a woman is being raped in broad daylight! Are people in this city _really_ that desensitized by the near daily occurrences of violent crime?

Perhaps, I'm being hasty in my judgment. Perhaps, they've become so used to the local super hero group, the "Teen Titans", being around to save them. I have nothing but the utmost respect for others who have chosen to protect innocent people, as I have, but even they have to prioritize what crimes they fight against. Between fighting that madman, Slade, and stopping a mugging or rape, they'll choose Slade because more lives are in danger.

Just because I respect their choice, doesn't mean that _I_ won't do anything.

"Get away from her," I say, my voice dry and raspy. "Or you will suffer."

They stop and turn to face me, both of them glaring in outrage. Ironic, considering the fact that they're the one's defiling another person.

"Who the fuck d'ya think you are, boy!" The one with the knife snarls. "Turn your ass around an' move along 'fore we send you home in pieces!"

"I'm going to tell you once more, step away from her." I continue walking towards them.

The one with the bat lowers it so it's level with my face. "I'm gonna beat some respect into you, you little shit!" He growls. "You're gonna be beggin' for your momma when I'm done with you!"

I don't respond verbally, I just wait for them to make the first move. The knife user lunges for me first, predictable. He's thinking that his partner will hit me with the bat if I manage to dodge to the side. Instead, I wait until he's within arms reach and grab his left wrist with my left hand. In one motion, I pivot on my left foot and shoot my right foot up and into his stomach. He collapses to the ground, holding his stomach and moaning in pain, but I don't stop to check on him. His friend is swinging the bat at my head.

I duck under, letting the momentum of his wild swing spin him around, and lunge for his legs, driving my shoulder into the back of his left knee and dropping him to the ground.

Basic rule of fighting, force bigger opponents to the ground, and make them fight on your level. Everyone's the same size when they're on the ground.

As soon as his knees touch the ground, I roll over and begin throwing feral punches at any part of his body I can reach. Kidneys, diaphragm, throat, face, I hit them all repeatedly. He falls down to the ground and tries to cover himself up, but I refuse to let up. I simply throw punches at the openings he leaves with more intensity than before. He coughs and gags as my repeated body blows force the air out of him and preventing him from breathing properly.

I don't care if he's sputtering pleas for mercy, I keep hitting him; I won't stop until he is no longer a threat. He moves to cover his stomach and sides, only to give me another opening to throw punches at his face again. My blows are as steady and ferocious as a beating drum. I absentmindedly notice that my fists are covered in blood, all his. I throw another punch and hear a sickening, yet strangely satisfying, crack.

I've broken his nose.

At the sound of concrete scraping against the rubber sole of the other man's shoe, I release the groaning would-be rapist and turn to face his knife-wielding companion.

"You son of a bitch!" He roars, swinging the knife at my face.

I duck under his first swipe, and dodge to the left as he lunges at me. He snarls at me and switches his knife to his right hand, before executing an outside to inside slash at my neck. I block with both hands, my left on his wrist and my right on his forearm, and aim a kick at the outside part of his knee. It breaks with a sickening crunch and he howls in pain, I use his distraction to my advantage, twisting and breaking his wrist to relieve him of the knife and throwing an open palm strike with my right hand to his diaphragm, and follow up by raising my elbow and smashing it into his face.

He falls to the ground, moaning pitifully and clutching his broken, bleeding nose. I take a step forward, intending to finish him off, but I hear movement from behind me. The other man wasn't going to lay down and let me humiliate them.

Impressive. Unfortunately for him, I still fully intend to make him regret his actions.

He swings the bat at my head, as if trying to knock a ball off of a stand. I quickly reach out with my left hand and take hold of the handle, stopping its progress, and simultaneously kick him in the soft tissue with my left foot.

Immediately, he doubles up in pain, grimacing, moaning and tearing up as it registers with his brain. As he falls to his knees, I spin on my heel and take hold of the bat in both hands, using my momentum to increase the force in the swing I aimed at the side of his head.

The aluminum bat makes an odd "PING" sound as it comes in contact with flesh and bone; the man wobbles for a moment, before slumping to the ground, unconscious. At the very least, he most likely has a concussion.

I eye my weapon for a moment, tossing it to the ground without much thought. I don't really need to be carrying that around, especially with the noticeable dent that the man's head had made in it. I turn to the former knife-wielder, remembering that I haven't yet neutralized him. I see him crawling slowly towards the knife, reaching out in an attempt to grasp the handle once more. He seems desperate, as if he thinks holding a knife will save him from my wrath, even though I had just taken on both he and his companion at the same time.

His fingertips are touching the handle, I can see a look of hope flash across his face. I end that ever so brief moment of hope by stomping on his right hand, the sound of bones breaking and his pained scream rip through the morning air.

I did say that I would break that hand. I always keep my promises.

With a jerk, he wrenched his hand out from under my tattered shoe, and begins to push himself back against the wall of the alley. For the first time, he's afraid of me. He knows that I want to hurt him.

He hasn't even _begun_ to know what real fear is though. But he will learn that momentarily.

"Please, I give up!" He whimpers, clutching his broken hand to his chest. "No more! I won't do it again! I'm sorry! Oh, dear God, please!"

"Please?" I ask, cocking my eyebrow. "That woman," I say with a nod in her direction. "Begged you to leave her alone. She offered you her money, her belongings, anything if you would leave her alone. Why should I show you mercy, when you would not extend the same gesture to her?"

"I-I-I-I'm sorry!" He wailed. "I was wrong! I've learned my lesson! I really have!"

I shake my head. "No. You haven't learned anything. Not yet, at least. I know your type all too well. You prey on the weak and helpless, you prey on their fear." I reach down and grab the man roughly by the neck, forcing him to look me in the eyes. "So, from one who prays on fear to another, tell me: What do you fear?"

My eyes glow brighter as my powers are let loose. He stares back at me for a moment, before his eyes widen in horror and a scream rips from his throat. I release him as he begins to thrash about on the ground, shrieking and wailing as his nightmare comes to life before his eyes. He's trapped in his own worst nightmare.

And just like all the others who had the misfortune of incurring my wrath, he'd never wake up from _this_ nightmare.

I turned away from the writhing, shrieking man on the ground and looked toward his would be victim. She stared back at me in complete shock, eyes widened in a mixture of relief and fear; even though I had just saved her, she was still terrified of me.

A thought occurred to me; she might just be in shock due to the trauma of nearly being raped. She would need medical attention. In fact, her attackers could probably use medical attention as well.

I needed a phone, but I didn't want to risk approaching the woman, lest I frighten her even more. Perhaps the man I'd knocked out with the bat had a cell phone on him. I searched his pockets, and found that he did indeed have one. I flipped it open and dialed 911.

_Ring_.

_Ring_.

_Rin – _"911 emergency." The female operate greeted me.

"Hello. In the alley behind the coffee shop on the corner of Adams and 67th, two men are trying to molest a woman. Someone ran over to help her, but they're armed. Please hurry."

"I'll dispatch a few units and call for an ambulance, sir. Can you please stay on the line so that we might have an idea of what's going o –"

_Click._

No. I won't be staying on the line and I won't be waiting here for you to speak to me. I might do your job for you out of some misguided sense of justice, but I'm not going to get caught up in the red tape because some people think I'm too rough on criminals.

Between allowing a woman to be raped or sending one attacker to the emergency room and the other to an asylum, I'll take the later. I don't do it because I want to make criminals fear me, far from it in fact.

I do this because I don't want innocent people to suffer.

**Chapter End**

**This was a different experience for me as I've never written a story from first person before. Please review and let me know what you liked, loved, disliked, or hated. If you're going to critique, please be constructive.**


	2. The Boy with No Name

**Disclaimer: I don't own the **_**Harry Potter**_** series or DC comics, nor do I claim rights to their characters.**

**I'm glad to see that this story was received well, thank you all for reading. This author's note will be very brief:**

**When I discussed part of this chapter with Heliosion, who has, for all intents and purposes, seem to become my de facto beta for this story, he didn't like it at first. I had to convince him that it wouldn't be detrimental to either of the characters involved. He accepted, grudgingly, and noted that it would only work if it were done right. You'll see what I mean as you read.**

**I hope you all think it was done right.**

**Chapter 2: The Boy With No Name **

The newly redesigned Blackwing, formerly known as the R-Cycle, roared as Nightwing sped towards the scene of an attempted rape gone wrong. He needed to get there as soon as possible, if what he heard was true, he might find some valuable information to crack a case that had been frustrating him for the last week.

The mysterious boy fighter had struck again.

The Titans had been in the process of recruiting other young heroes and heroines, trying to expand their roster to enable them to fight crime on a broader scale. Though the original five members were formidable, they knew full well that they each be in two places at once. Recently, the team had added the likes of Speedy, Aqualad, and Nightwing's old friend, Kid Flash. The newly inducted trio had joined them on a few missions already, and had made a positive impact thus far.

The team had been in the process of recruiting Miss Martian, the Martian Manhunter's niece, Superboy, the teenage clone of Superman, and Supergirl, Superman's niece, when the mystery boy showed up in Los Angeles. And with his appearance, hospital beds and insane asylum wards were soon filled with his victims, all of them criminals.

Nightwing actually appreciated the fact that the boy was taking down some of the 'little league' criminals, the ones the Titans sometimes missed due to their larger scale confrontations, what he needed to know was which side of the battle between heroes and villains he fell on.

When the computer back at the Cave pulled up a hit on this latest act of violent heroism, Nightwing had immediately set out. This could make or break the case.

When police and E.M.T.s arrived at the corner of Adams and 67th, they were horrified; they'd witnessed similar scenes multiple times in recent weeks. A young woman was sitting in a state of shock and two men were down, one unconscious, the other writhing on the ground and shrieking in terror.

After a bit of coaxing and gentle questioning, the woman identified the two men as her attackers and stated that a small boy with messy black hair and dressed in ragged clothing had stopped them. Judging by the state of her clothing, and the fact that both men had been previously convicted of rape and battery, the case would normally closed by now.

The actions of the mystery boy changed everything. Instead of taking both men to the hospital to be treated and _then_ booked, they had to restrain the screaming man to prevent him from hurting himself and try to force him onto a stretcher. The process was easier said than done.

"GET THEM OFF ME!" He screamed, as he flailed his limbs, hitting a paramedic in the face unintentionally. "GET THEM OFF ME! MOMMY! HELP ME, MOMMY!"

"Hold his arms down!" An officer shouted. "You! Grab his left leg; I've got his righ- OW! FUCK! Hold still!"

The man continued wailing, completely unaware of their efforts. "HELP ME! PLEASE! OH GOD, THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!"

"DAMN IT! SOMEONE GET HIM ON THE BOARD!"

Tires screeched as Nightwing slammed on the breaks, surveying the chaotic scene in front of him. He pulled off his helmet and leapt off the Blackwing, pausing only to hang the helmet on one of its handlebars. He rushed toward the officers and paramedics, who were still trying to restrain the thrashing man, and called out to one of them.

"Captain Rogers!" He greeted. "What's the situation?"

Captain Rogers, who was still struggling to maintain his hold on the man's leg, turned his reddened face to the masked teen. "THE SITUATION IS THAT WE'RE TRYING TO STOP THIS NUT FROM MOVING BEFORE HE ENDS UP HURTING HIMSELF!"

Nightwing nodded and reached into his utility belt, pulling out a small syringe. "Hold his arm steady, I've got something here that will put him to sleep for a while."

Rogers nodded. "Understood! Carmichael, Anderson! Hold his shoulders down! Cooper! Help O'Ryan hold that arm down!"

"Yes, sir!" The three officers responded in unison, moving to follow his orders.

Nightwing approached the still screaming man slowly, trying to avoid making any sudden movements lest he give the man any more reason to fear him. If the man kept struggling, he could possibly do permanent damage to himself. Nightwing kneeled down beside him, and inserted the needle into the man's arm and pushed down on the hammer. The man continued struggling for the moment, but his movements slowed and his shrieks of terror grew quiet as the drug began to take affect. His eyes shut and his head lolled to the side.

He was unconscious.

The officers and paramedics sighed in relief. Now that the hard part was out of the way, they could finally get this man onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. From there, it would be smooth sailing.

As Rogers rose to his feet, Nightwing turned back to him and began questioning him. "Captain, what happened here?"

The weary man snorted in derision. "Our mystery boy is what happened here. The guy you just knocked out and his partner, who we've got on that stretcher over there, tried to rape a woman in the alley. We sent her to on ahead to the hospital, but got the story from her before she left. She said that a pale-skinned boy with black hair and wearing a blue hoodie with a Maple Leafs logo on the front showed up. He then proceeded to beat the ever loving crap out of her attackers; knocking the first out with his own bat, which you'll see lying over there, and then just looking at the guy who was screaming just now. That's it. Just _looked_ him in the eyes, and the bastard started screaming and crying like a little kid who woke up from a nightmare."

Nightwing sighed in frustration; this scene had become all too familiar over the last couple of weeks. "Just like the other cases."

"_Exactly_ like the others," Rogers amended. "All of the other stories are the same. He beats them with his fists, looks at them, and they go into a full-blown panic! Hell, the guy who tried to rob that computer store last week doesn't respond to anything the doctors say or do. He just struggles in his restraints and screams about falling out of a plane!"

"Let's focus on here and now, Captain," Nightwing replied, his tone clipped. "You said the victim is already off to the hospital, understandably, and one of our attackers is unconscious. What about his accomplice?"

"Oh, him? He woke up a couple of minutes ago and started babbling. Paramedics did a couple of quick symptom tests and say he has a concussion, not sure how severe yet."

"What's he been saying?"

"A bunch of Grade A bullshit, if you ask me," Rogers snorted. "One minute, he's calling people names for soda companies, the next he's saying that he thought that 'he was just an urban legend.'"

An urban legend? Funny, people used to think that the Batman was just an urban legend created by the people of Gotham. "And you think 'he' is the mystery boy?"

"Unless I've missed the _other_ mysterious person running around, I'd say so."

Nightwing decided to ignore the sarcasm, sticking to business. "I need five minutes with him before you take him away."

"Nightwing," He replied, with no shortage of exasperation. He just wanted to be done with this whole ordeal. "He's been concussed; he's probably just babbling on about some TV show he's seen or something."

"In my experience, it's best to follow every possible lead, even if it seems improbable," The hero retorted.

"Fine," Rogers grumbled. "Five minutes, no more." He shook his head and turned to speak to his fellow officers as the masked teen stalked toward the heavily injured man.

Nightwing couldn't help but wince internally as he surveyed the man's physical injuries. This mystery boy was good. Incredibly brutal, but good. Taking down a man this size would be difficult enough for a fourteen-year-old, add in the factor that there were two men with weapons and he shouldn't have been able to leave unscathed. And yet, he had.

The boy definitely had some form of martial arts training. Nightwing wasn't sure to what extent, but the boy had at least minimal training. His ability to send his opponents into hysterics with "just a look" made him even more dangerous. All of this information made Nightwing wonder; this mystery boy was a vigilante, no doubt about that, and Nightwing could respect that lifestyle. After all, he was considered a vigilante himself. But there was a very, _very_ fine line between the life of a vigilante and that of a villain.

Which begged the question: Where did the mystery boy fall?

His current movements would suggest that he was a hero; if so, Nightwing could understand and even try to work with him a bit. Nightwing had no problem with someone wanting to help in the never-ending battle against crime; he actually welcomed it. However, he refused to simply assume that all was well. Although he and Batman had a falling out of sorts, he still favored their old saying:

Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

And with the rate the kid was sending people to the emergency rooms, Nightwing could only pray that this one didn't take a turn for the worst, or they might have the second coming of Scarecrow on their hands.

Nightwing pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind for the moment, getting information out of the heavily injured thug on the stretcher. At the sight of the man's battered and bloodied face, Nightwing quirked an eyebrow and secretly gave the mystery boy a small nod of approval.

The kid had beaten the ever-loving shit out of this guy. Some might call it excessive brutality, but as Batman's former protégé, Nightwing had seen his fair share of bloodied thugs. He delivered some of the worst beatings, especially when it came to rapists and mob members. They were the lowest of the low, in his mind.

The would-be rapist was babbling, true to the Captain's word. He rambled on to one of the paramedic, who he called 'Pepsi can' due to the blue uniform, about a little blue demon who appeared out of nowhere and spoke in 'a scary voice'. This got Nightwing's full attention; reports stated that his mystery boy had been sighted wearing a tattered blue hoodie. The attacker might be a bit out of sorts, but he was at least coherent enough to relay what had happened to him.

Nightwing stood by the stretcher, leaning over to look the man in the eye. "What happened here?" He began.

The man smiled foolishly and looked off into the distance, looking at something only he could see. "Donny 'n I were gonna have a blast." He said, weakly. His voice sounded dry and scratchy, the bruises on this neck probably had something to do with that. "We saw this pretty lookin' girl, and took her here to have some fun…" He trailed off, turning his head to meet Nighwing's steely gaze and greeted him as if just noticing he were there. "Oh… Hello there, birdy man." Nightwing's right eye twitched. Birdy man? This bastard was lucky he was concussed.

"Yes, hello," Nightwing responded through gritted teeth. "Who did this to you?"

The man's vacant expression vanished in an instant, he suddenly looked aware of his surroundings. He looked suddenly aware and very afraid. "You… You don't know?" He whispered. "It was _him_! He's real!"

"Him? You mean the kid that's been pummeling criminals around the city for the past two weeks?"

"That's him!" The man said, trying to nod despite the neck brace he was wearing. "We just thought it was a story! An urban myth! But, he's real! He's just like all the stories say! Pale skin, messy hair, _glowing green eyes_!"

"You've heard of him before?" Nightwing pressed, his mind racing as new information presented itself. This was it.

"Everyone's heard of him!" The man hissed. "Everyone's heard what he does! He shows up out of nowhere and starts beating people within an inch of their lives! Thugs, gangsters, pimps, dealers, he don't discriminate! He just finds the scum of the city and goes to war! No matter how many gangs have gone after him, no matter how many mob bosses have put hits on his head; no one can find him. He finds _them_ and leaves them lying in a pool of their own blood! Or worse, he does something to them, something horrible! People say he makes their worst fear come to life, just by _looking_ at them! Then, when he's done, he just vanishes without a trace! A few days later, the same stuff starts going down in another city, same methods to the letter! But the cops and news don't know, they think it's a copycat. A kid who's playing hero, they say. But then, the guys he beats up start showing signs of the same madness as the others. It was him all along, he was just using a different name! The kid's been to God knows how many cities and no one can find him, 'cause he's got so many fake names!"

Nightwing grabbed his hoodie and pulled him closer, glaring heavily. "You talk like you know exactly who he is, so what's his real name?"

"He don't have one! Every name he's ever given out leads to a dead end! The only reason people connect the dots is because of them damn eyes of his!"

"You must have something you can tell me! He's got to have a common theme to his aliases!"

"There is one," The man admitted. "Not one that he goes by, it's a name the papers gave him a while back. That's the only name that's ever really stuck with him."

"Tell me!"

The man leaned in closer, whispering the name in Nightwing's ear as if afraid that the mere mention of it would bring the boy back to enact terrible vengeance.

"They call him the Wraith!"

"Nightwing!" Captain Rogers called. "Your five minutes are up!"

The masked teen nodded and stepped away from the stretcher, he'd gotten what he came for. Even if the kid himself didn't use the alias, Nightwing could still use it to find his trail. If he found the trail, he could find how the boy operated, how he moved.

Or, more importantly, what made him become "the Wraith."

Nightwing gunned the Blackwing's engine and sped off, he needed to get back to the Cave and begin a search using the supercomputer. He would solve the puzzle surrounding the Wraith soon enough. And if the boy turned out to be a threat…

Well, Nightwing hoped it wouldn't come to that. The boy could have the potential to be a real hero if pushed in the right direction. He was doing relatively well on his own, but, as far as Nightwing could tell, he hadn't gone up against any large-scale threats. Most of his foes had been local mob or everyday gangbangers.

_Maybe that's how he wants it_, Nightwing thought as he rapidly approached the San Gabriel Mountains. _Maybe he only fights local crime for some reason he's kept to himself._

He couldn't help but heave a frustrated sigh. The deeper he dove into this case, the more questions he found. This boy had really earned his moniker. His motives were just as shady as his methods.

Nightwing idly wondered if Batman had given the boy some training, but quickly dashed that thought. The boy wouldn't leave a trail if Batman had trained him. When Batman trained someone, he made sure they were able to do battle with any villain and get out of any situation.

Granted, Wraith had shown skill in the latter, but he hadn't shown any of the typical brutal elegance in combat that Batman's protégés had acquired over the years. Nightwing was a perfect example of that. He was, after all, the _original_ Boy Wonder.

Not that he held anything against Tim Drake, the latest Robin. Even though Nightwing's personal relationship with Bruce had taken a turn for the worst as a result of the argument years ago, he was still happy that the old man had someone to balance his detective and combat genius with some semblance of a normal life.

Nightwing was so focused on the investigation, he barely noticed the hidden scanners kicking on and identifying him. He was at the Cave's entrance. He was home at last.

"_Access 01. Subject: Nightwing._" A computerized voice spoke through the speaker on the Blackwing's dashboard. In the distance, the road suddenly split apart and began to lower, opening the secret entrance to the Cave's garage. Nightwing didn't even have to slow down as he shot through the opening and into the access tunnel.

He really had to hand it to Cyborg; the robotic teen really knew how to design security systems. His system made it nearly impossible for the team's enemies to find the Cave, let alone infiltrate it, yet they made it much easier for Titans members to come and go as needed. After all, the best security was one that you could get past easily, so your enemies didn't get any hints as to the extent of its protection.

It didn't get much better than Cyborg's bio scanners; and they were just the first line of defense. All they did was open the various entrances into the Titans' secret base, hidden in the San Gabriel Mountains: The Cave.

When the group first formed, Beast Boy, the self-appointed funny man, suggested that they build their base on a small island, just off the Californian coast. His idea called for them to construct a giant tower in the shape of the letter T. It was to be given the rather obvious name of Titans Tower.

Nightwing, who had been known as Robin at the time, thought that Raven's sarcastic question summed up the rest of the group's feelings quite well:

"Are you sure the giant T won't stand for 'Target Acquired' when someone launches a missile at us?"

It was to be the first of a very long list of failed jokes and sarcastic comments exchanged between the pair. The score was heavily one sided in favor of the team's resident half-demon sorceress. Cyborg had, at one point, kept track of the numbers, but gave up after Raven gained a two hundred point lead on the green changeling.

Their solution came when Raven proposed a more discrete location for their base. Thus, the Cave was created. The Titans' base of operations had been built _inside_ of Mount San Antonio in the style of a massive bunker. A garage, a central command center with a supercomputer, a fully functional gym, a dining hall, living quarters, the Cave had it all. The entire original group had contributed to the design. Starfire had even recommended using the Tameraneans' fortification style to compliment Cyborg's security system.

If memory served, Raven was even researching some ancient magic to help repel demonic attacks and Beast Boy had asked the mountain's animal inhabitants to inform him on who set foot on the base of the mountain.

Needless to say, the Cave would be damn near impenetrable and indestructible once Raven had worked her magic.

As Nightwing pulled into the garage and skidded to a screeching halt, he noticed a half black teen, half machine working on the engine of a blue and white car, the T-Car, with the aid of a short, lanky green boy wearing black and purple spandex. Their names were Vic Stone, the Cyborg, and Garfield Logan, Beast Boy, respectively. Both of them were valued members of the team, despite their individual faults and quirks.

In fact, Nightwing felt lucky to be friends with both young men, superhero business aside. He would trust either of them with his life.

Cyborg was the first to notice the Titans' masked leader. He grinned and called out to Nightwing as he hopped off the Blackwing. "Yo, Wing! You manage to turn up anything at the scene?"

Before Nightwing could respond affirmatively, Beast Boy looked up from the toolbox and threw in his two cents. "Aw, c'mon, Cy! Nightwing doesn't 'turn things up at the scene'! He commands the evidence to reveal itself and the universe obeys!"

"Why did I ever let you see that Chuck Norris fact generator?" The robotic teen groaned, throwing down a wrench in annoyance. "Really, I was just asking for you to ruin it for me!"

"You're just jealous of my comedic genius!"

"Is that what you call it? Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess."

"Oh, bite me, you walking tin can!" Beast Boy shouted in mock anger.

"Say what? Say that again, you little grass stain! I dare you! I double-dare you!" Cyborg roared, playing along with their traditional exchange.

"Dude! You just called me out for using a Chuck Norris joke and you follow with a Samuel L. Jackson line? What the Hell?"

"It's a classic! Besides, any _Pulp Fiction_ line owns your lame Chuck Norris fact adaptation."

Nightwing snickered as Beast Boy struggled to find the right words to convey his objection, and failing miserably. He quickly reigned in his amusement and got back to business. "As fun as this is, I really do need to get to the computer. Case won't solve itself, despite what control over the universe Beast Boy thinks I have."

He had to get at least one shot in.

The pair's teasing attitude vanished in an instant, their attention fully focused on their leader. Gone were the Titans' free-spirited pranksters, in their places were the seasoned veterans of countless battles against evil.

"You found something?" Cyborg asked fervently. The case had been the focus of every Titan in the last few weeks. "You finally found something?"

"I did," Nightwing confirmed. "Not much, but I managed to get a known alias."

Beast Boy scoffed. "Please! We all know that _you_ could find enough information to write someone's biography with just an alias. So? What's the kid call himself? Batman Jr.? The Avenger? Punisher?"

"Not even close. And stop referencing those comics you read, this is serious."

"I am being serious! Kids pretend to be comic or TV heroes all the time! Most kids would probably look to one of those heroes for inspiration." If Nightwing didn't already know better, he'd admit that Beast Boy was on to something. Had Wraith been a normal kid and gone that route, it would be a perfectly valid point.

But that was just the thing; Wraith wasn't a normal kid by any extent of the definition.

Nightwing strode towards the elevator door, looking back over his shoulder to answer the changeling. "Wraith. He's called Wraith. I'm going up to the command center to see what I can dig up; I'll call you if I find similar incidents as to what we've seen in the city."

Cyborg raised his eyebrow. "You don't trust your source?"

"Not completely. He was heavily concussed when I spoke with him, so for all I know, he was reciting lines from a TV show and drew connections with our mystery boy. However, if I can use the name 'Wraith' to find similar incident reports, we'll have at least some sort of a lead on him."

"Whenever you're ready, we're in," Beast Boy called as Nightwing stepped into the elevator. "Cyborg just _had_ to take a break from working on the Zeta tubes so he could install the new engine on his precious 'baby.'" Nightwing couldn't help but smirk and shake his head in amusement at the green teen's mocking tone and Cyborg's subsequent indignant response.

"OH HELL NO! You did _not _just disrespect my girl in front of me!" And they were at it again.

Just like clockwork.

INSERT LINE BREAK

Emilio gagged and sputtered as the wind was driven from his lungs by a stiff kick to his ribs. He rolled over and curled himself into a ball, trying to protect himself from the ferocious onslaught of the gang that had encircled him as he walked down Main Street. He couldn't help but whimper in pain and fear as he watched one or two of them pull out switchblade knives; they weren't doing this as part of some initiation, they were actually going to kill him. They were really going to kill him for hanging out with the wrong crowd.

The gang laughed raucously as he tried to feebly crawl away from their blows, his efforts were in vain. He was in the back of an alley, a chain link fence blocked any chance of escape, and the gang had cut off his route back to the street.

Unfortunately, there was little chance for someone to come help, the only lighting in the alley was provided by two low powered service bulbs, hardly enough for a passerby to see what was happening at a quick glance.

"C'mon, you little Spick!" One of the members snarled. "You an' your boys like to sit an' talk a lot o' shit when you on your porch in that Spick hood! Let's her you talk now, bitch!"

Another aimed a kick at his head, causing him to see a burst of stars. "I heard you said some shit to my lil' bro! Let's hear it, funny man! Let's hear your jokes now!" He made as if to punch the downed man, but stopped and had a thought. He turned to one of his fellow gang members, the one holding a crowbar, and gave an order. "Jamal! Get over there and keep an eye out for cops! We don't need no pigs steppin' into our business!"

"Got it, Martin!" The one called Jamal answered, turning and walking toward the sidewalk. Jamal was so focused looking out on ground level and listening for the sounds of his friends teaching Emilio a lesson, that he didn't hear the sound of someone running along the roof of the building to his left. He didn't hear the person's grunt of exertion as he leapt from the edge of the two-story building; he didn't even her the telltale sound of clothing rustling through the air.

However, he certainly felt someone land feet first on his shoulders, and he definitely heard both of his collarbones cracking and breaking with the force of the landing. He barely had time to cry out in pain before the attacker slammed his face into the ground, knocking him out instantly.

The other gang members turned around to investigate the commotion. Cops weren't that sneaky; they usually came in with lights flashing and sirens screaming! Sure enough, they didn't see a man in a uniform. It looked more like a kid. A freaking kid was picking himself up off the ground after tackling and knocking out one of their crew!

That brat was dead.

"You little fucker!" Martin snarled, enraged at the sight of one of his boys being taken down. "I'm gonna carve y-" Martin did a double take. His eyes had to be fooling him; it had to be a trick of the streetlight. Unless he was mistaken, the boy was wearing a blue hoodie, with the hood up to cover his head.

He was wearing a faded blue hoodie, littered with bloodstains.

His gang seemed to have drawn the same conclusion he had, they were backing away in fear, each whispering to one another in panic.

"Is that _him_?"

"It can't be! He's not supposed to be real!"

"He's standing right fuckin' there! That's pretty damn real!"

"You don't know that!" One man, feeling particularly brave, pulled out his knife and shouted. "It's probably some punk playin' copycat!" The man's bravado died the moment the hooded figure turned to face them, leveling a glare at them

Glaring through his _glowing green_ eyes.

The man dropped the knife and immediately backpedalled, not wanting to be anywhere near the boy who terrorized gangs all over the continent. Soon, it became a shoving match, each member trying to hide behind one another, doing anything they could so they wouldn't be the first one in line to face the Wraith.

The hooded vigilante began walking forward, taking slow, measured strides towards his next victims. He closed his haunting, green eyes for a moment, and stepped into the glow of one of the service lights. He opened his eyes.

The gang recoiled in fear and began shrieking; two glowing green eyes had split into four, narrow slits, each of them glowing an angry red light. The Wraith was no boy; he was a demon!

The shrieking men turned tail and fled, running towards the chain link fence and climbing over it in a mad scramble to escape the vengeful demon of the night.

INSERT LINE BREAK

I paused and blinked, watching as they fled from me. For once, I'm genuinely interested in their fear. Perhaps I should elaborate.

Normally, I don't really bother paying attention to what I show my victims. Their fears don't matter to me; I could care less whether or not I force a man to live out his days covered in spiders or if he's forced to feel the horrifying sensation of being drowned over and over again. I just don't care.

As long as the violence stops and innocent lives aren't in danger, I honestly don't care that I force them to live in endless fear. They prey on the weak, why should I feel any sort of sympathy towards them? Why should I even feel for them at all? It would just be a waste of time and cause unnecessary danger to those around me.

Anger is blinding, happiness is distracting, love is deceiving. This is what has directed my actions and helped me control my powers, my curse, for five long years. Ever since that night, ever since my world changed, I've done everything I could to prevent myself from feeling anything, lest I do harm to others.

But this, this interests me greatly. Normally, my victims are terrified of different things. Understandable, since every human has a different fear. This, however, always terrifies them beyond comprehension. All I have to do is show them what I really am, show them my true face, and they run away, screaming about demons trying to eat their souls.

Is that what I am? Am I a demon?

If that were true, it would explain so much. It would certainly explain why my relatives were so insistent that I was a freak. That I was seemingly destined to do nothing but cause misery and pain wherever I went, no matter what I did.

Am I really a demon? Are the papers, the media, the villains, even the common people really that afraid of me?

Of course they are.

I've heard all the names they've given me over the years, none of which I've chosen. Wraith. Nightmare. Phobia. The list goes on and on, each name more derogatory and fear inspiring than the last. In all fairness, I haven't done much to shake the stereotype. I haven't done a whole lot to make my image a positive one.

Why do I care about this again? I can't seem to remember why I'm so focused on the way people talk when they think I'm not listening. Perhaps it's a habit from the earlier part of my life that I just couldn't shake.

The sound of labored breathing brings me back to the real world. I look to the victim of the mugging, and survey him for any obvious injuries. Judging by the way he's holding his arm in a position to protect and cradle the left side of his ribcage, I would guess that he has at least one cracked rib. However, it's more likely that I'm underestimating the damage.

Alas, I do not have the power of x-ray vision, so I am not really fit to give a full medical examination.

As I give the man a once over, I notice something familiar about the way he's dressed. Suddenly, it clicks: he's in a gang. Judging by the baggy cargo pants, white t-shirt, and the bandana on the ground near him, I deduce that he is a member of Los Hermanos.

He is not a danger to anyone. Los Hermanos is, for all intents and purposes, a group of friends from a part of the city with a large Mexican and Hispanic ethnic population. They are a non-violent gang, unless one of their members is threatened. They are typically seen sitting together on the front porch of a member's house or apartment, or they loiter near gas stations and their preferred restaurants. All they really do is joke around with one and verbally harass those who walk by.

Annoying? Yes. Dangerous? Rarely. Criminal? No.

The man before me is backing against the fence, he's just as afraid of me as the gang that ran away moments ago. It appears that tales of my deeds, some exaggerated and some not, have even made their rounds through the low level street gangs. That is both a blessing and an annoyance.

Fear is a very powerful weapon, as I should know, but it also leads to isolation for whoever wields it. The fear I create is a very useful tool in my fight against crime, but I'm treated like a leper in the presence of the 'upstanding citizens'.

The term upstanding is such a farce. My relatives were considered upstanding back home, despite the manner in which they treated me. They had the support of the community, I didn't. All that word means, is that you have the backing of those around you, despite the fact that, behind closed doors, you're just as vicious and cruel as a common thug.

This man before me is anything but an upstanding citizen. He's probably toed the line more times than I care to count. But that doesn't matter. He needs my help. He might fear me, but I can help him. I will help him, despite the fact that he views me as a monster.

After all, even if he's not the ideal citizen and I'm a monster, he's still the defenseless one in this instance. It's ironic, actually. Although I'm called so many hurtful things, hated by some, and feared by nearly all, the truth of the matter is rather ironic.

Despite my powers and brutal methods, I'm probably more humane than most people in the world.

I take back what I said. That's not ironic at all, that's actually rather depressing.

**Chapter End**

**There's chapter two! Hope you enjoyed the beginning stages of Nightwing's investigation and a brief, yet informative, look into "the Wraith's" mind.**

**If you noticed, I didn't stick with the Teen Titans cartoon in several areas. Hell, I ditched the damn Tower! There's a reason behind that. That friend I mentioned earlier informed me that DC is using the new 52 version of the comics to apply some realism. So, I decided to add my own bit of realism to this world.**

**I will warn you right now, some of the heroes will be going back to their comic book roots with their attitudes and outfits. For example: Raven won't be wearing a leotard… she'll be wearing the dress she wore in the original comics. Of course, the only reason she didn't have it in the cartoon is because the artists said it was a bitch to animate properly. Oh well.**

**Review and let me know what you loved, liked, disliked, hated, or just plain wonder what the Hell I'm up to. **


	3. Identity Crisis

**Disclaimer: I do not own the **_**Harry Potter**_** series or DC comics, nor do I claim rights to any of their characters.**

**Chapter 3: Identity Crisis**

Nightwing glared heatedly at the screen before him, silently commanding it to make sense of the jumble of information on its display before he decided to rip it out of its housing and throw it into the incinerator.

Alas, computers cannot feel fear, even from the former protégé of Batman, so Nightwing's intimidation tactics were in vain. Just as his search for the true identity of the enigmatic Wraith.

Oh, the concussed man's story was valid, maddeningly so. The boy had indeed been to multiple cities across Canada and the United States, and had left a path of bloodied, battered and insane criminals in his wake. Whether it was Toronto, Montreal, Detroit, Chicago, Cleveland, Denver, or Oakland, the boy showed up, seemingly out of nowhere, and went to work.

He gave no mercy, no quarter. With each story Nightwing read, the violent pattern was present, especially in recent years. Kneecaps broken, shoulders dislocated, jaws shattered, the boy didn't discriminate. He literally beat his opponents into the ground and left them in a bloody heap.

All of it added up to an even more frustrating puzzle: the boy had no clear point of origin! He just showed up one day in Montreal, with no records, no previous history. Every single fake name he used lead to a dead end. It was as if he just dropped out of the sky or crawled out of the deepest pits of Hell itself. Prior to his arrival five years ago, there was no similar story about this Wraith being present in North America at all.

However, there was one very small lead he'd found. It was a long shot due to lack of solid information, but it might be worth looking into.

True, there were no stories of the Wraith's origins anywhere in North America, but there was something in the United Kingdom. Nightwing had stumbled across the story of an eight-year-old boy who had run away from his home in an upscale neighborhood in Little Whinging, Surrey. According to neighbors' accounts, the boy was a troublemaker, a hooligan. Adults described him as small for his age, had shaggy black hair, unnaturally pale skinned, and, since his eighth birthday, had the most haunting green eyes; Eyes that seemed to glow with a strange light. They went on to say that he was always up to no good, slinking about in the shadows and trying to find ways to inconvenience the 'upstanding' citizens of the neighborhood.

The children, however, contradicted that portrayal. The neighborhood children called him a 'weird, little freak' and spoke of times in which they gladly mocked and harassed the boy. Nightwing felt his hands clench into fists, even if this boy, this 'Harry Potter' didn't turn out to be the Wraith, he felt for him. No, he was _furious_ at the ridicule the boy had suffered.

Two stories had arisen from Little Whinging. The first involved Harry saving his schoolmates from a group of gunman, who'd been hoping to hold the children for ransom. Nightwing's interest in this story was peaked, when he read the diagnostic reports from various psychiatrists who'd observed and studied the six men; each of them was trapped in a state of perpetual fear. They weren't even aware of the world around them, they only knew or experienced what they feared most.

This definitely made the case for Harry Potter being the true identity behind the Wraith a possibility. However, Nightwing knew better than to make judgment without all necessary information. He needed more to connect the two boys.

The second story was much more grim. The boy had run away form his home after it had mysteriously collapsed, killing his Aunt and Uncle instantly. The boy had, apparently, pulled his grievously wounded cousin out of the rubble and dragged him to the nearest hospital. The only words he spoke to the receptionist were "Save him."

According to the hospital staff present, those two words were spoken in a tone completely devoid of any emotion, his eyes, his glowing green eyes, were cold and haunted, ringed with dark circles that told of stress and sleepless nights. The boy looked as though he'd seen something terrible. Hell, the staff even stated that the boy had walked out on his own, despite the fact that he was dripping blood on the floor as he went.

This begged the question: How had Harry Potter survived the house collapsing with only minimal injuries? Or, how had an abused boy been capable of pulling his cousin out from under the wreckage and then drag him to a hospital? Nightwing had already read reports of how the children from both Harry's school and neighborhood had ridiculed and harassed him, both physically and verbally.

Usually, victims of such abuse didn't go out of their way to save one of their tormentors, most wouldn't be able to anyways due to their previous injuries and possible malnutrition. As stated before, reports showed signs that the Potter boy had definitely suffered both; the hospital staff members could tell even with the brief look at his physical appearance.

The very thought made Dick Grayson see red.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself down. He needed to focus on finding Wraith first. He needed to approach this as Nightwing, feared crime fighter and former student of the Batman, not as Dick Grayson.

Dick Grayson allowed emotions to cloud his judgment; Nightwing did not. Nightwing was able to put those emotions aside and concentrate on the task at hand. He would find Wraith first; then he would figure out if his new lead was correct. If Harry Potter was indeed the Wraith, Nightwing would find him and determine his motives. If his hunch was wrong, then Nightwing would just have to find the Potter boy later.

If he was, well, that was another matter entirely. Nightwing would find which side the boy fell on, and then, he would unravel truth behind the boy's shadowy past.

And if Nightwing found out that the boy had been abused, someone would be drinking through a straw for the foreseeable future. If it was bad enough, he might even bring Starfire along so she could give them a (ahem) piece of her mind.

One fun fact he'd learned from Starfire: On Tamaran, child abuse is punishable by every torture levied against the child being dealt to the abuser.

"Richard," Speak of the Tamaranean and she shall appear. Nightwing turned to acknowledge his friend and, as always, had to admire her rather exotic beauty. Her long, red hair and orange tinged skin accented one another to make her look as though she'd literally stepped out of someone's fantasy. As usual, Starfire was garbed in her trademark purple top and skirt with matching boots. Nightwing quickly averted his eyes, lest he be tempted to look at the rather generous amount of skin his teammate _insisted_ on showing.

Try as he might, Nightwing had failed miserably at instilling a sense of modesty in his rather affectionate teammate.

Starfire looked back at him with a bit of concern. "You've been staring and growling at the computer for the past twenty minutes… have you found something that displeases you?"

"Very much so," Nightwing admitted, not bothering to try to hide his mood. After working together for so long, each Titan had learned how to read one another quite well. "The deeper I dig to find out more about the Wraith, the more horrible his story grows."

"Is his past truly that bad?"

"Worse. Between what he's done to his victims and what people have tried to do to him, it's very much like my early days in Gotham. Fortunately, he seems to have ways of disappearing right when things are looking like they're about to take a turn for the worst."

"I see," Starfire said, though she could tell that her friend was hiding something. "That does not explain why you nearly pulled out one of your Wingdings a moment ago."

"Nothing, much. Just a bit of frustration showing through," Nightwing lied as he quickly toggled the computer screen, changing it so that the story about Harry Potter was no longer visible. He really didn't need her to see that quite yet; he very much doubted that he'd be able to calm her down once she found out.

Starfire crossed her arms over her chest and leveled a glare at her oldest friend. "Richard, I have known you long enough to know when you are withholding information from me. Kindly refrain from doing so."

Nightwing winced. So, that wasn't one of his better ideas. He'd forgotten that Raven had taught her to read the subtle ticks people make when lying. Damn observant empath.

"It might be nothing, just something to look into after solving this Wraith mystery," He began, hoping that she would accept that answer. Judging by the narrowing of her eyes, she didn't. "While looking up leads on our mystery boy, I found a story from England that matched up with some of Wraith's. I don't have much evidence to support it, but there's the slightest of chances that this boy from England is the Wraith."

Starfire paused and considered this new information, but couldn't help but voice her confusion. "That is interesting, Richard, but I still do not see how any of this caused you to feel such anger."

Nightwing sighed; at least he tried to avoid the now inevitable Tamaranean rage. "The boy from England, this 'Harry Potter', didn't exactly live a good life. Based on stories from the adults and children from the area, he was abused physically and verbally by the entire local community."

Nightwing braced himself for the impending rant, but it never came. Starfire wasn't yelling death threats in Tamaranean, perhaps Raven had been able to help her learn to control her temper.

No such luck. Upon further inspection, Starfire's eyes were closed, her eyebrows twitching as she struggled to maintain her composure. Her hands clenched into tight fists and her shoulder shook with rage. She wasn't angry; she was pissed!

After a moment, Starfire spoke in a low, deceptively calm voice. "We will find him." She wasn't asking or stating a desire; she was giving the order. One that Nightwing had no intention of rejecting.

"We will," He agreed. "But first, we have to deal with Wraith. Like I said, there's a chance that he is Harry Potter."

"Very well," She nodded in consent. "I will wait, Richard, but I will not wait long. You know how my people deal with child abusers."

"I do, and I have no intention of asking you to discard your morals, we'll deal with this case later." Well, that crisis was averted. Now, he had to break the news to the others.

Oh, joy. Might as well get it all done at once so he didn't have to deal with their tempers individually.

Seriously, telling a bunch of super powered teens and young adults that a kid had been abused was probably a terrible idea, but he didn't have a choice. If Harry Potter turned out to be the Wraith, then this was vital information. They had to know.

And he was the lucky messenger. Nightwing would almost prefer dealing with Batman after being told that the Joker had broken out of Arkham Asylum. _Almost_.

Nightwing pressed the intercom button, and began his announcement. "This is Nightwing calling all available Titans. Head to the Assembly Hall for a briefing session on the Wraith case. I repeat, all Titans, head to the Assembly Hall for briefing."

**LINE BREAK**

I can't help but feel the slightest bit of annoyance as I drag the unconscious member of Los Hermanos down the sidewalk. This is more difficult than I thought.

Thinking back, I probably should've said something to the man, I should've assured him that I was just going to help him get somewhere to have his injuries treated. But, hindsight is twenty-twenty. Instead, I approached him without a word and looked down at him, holding out my hand. He fainted on the spot.

Perhaps the combination of seeing my more demonic face, the injuries caused by the beating, and blood loss had something to do with it. Actually, that's a stupid question. Any one of those three options alone would be enough to explain his fainting.

I'm rambling to myself again, I really need to break that habit or I'll go crazy. Well, I'll go _crazier_ than I currently am. That prospect disturbs me slightly.

I have enough mental and emotional problems as it is; I really need to stop this inner monologue habit of mine before I start hearing multiple voices in my head. Then again, if I have voices in my head, I won't be lonely anymore, right?

There I go again. I swear, I could find away to lose myself if I were on a straight path sometimes. I need to stop thinking about… whatever _this_ is and focus on the matter at hand. This man needs medical attention.

Dragging this man is more difficult than when I dragged Dudley to the hospital five years ago, right after I pulled him out of the wreckage of… of _their_ house.

Yes, I remember it clearly. I pulled him out from underneath the rubble that was once the house of my Aunt, Uncle, and Dudley, himself. My tormentors. I remember struggling to lift the remains of the splintered dry wall and kitchen table off of his broken, bleeding body, and then dragging him to the hospital.

Just as I pulled this man out of the alley and am dragging him to a hospital. It's a bit odd, it's almost as if I'm reliving the events of five years ago, with slight variations. This time, no one ended up dead. This time, I don't plan on letting my charge end up in the intensive care ward. This time…

This time, it isn't my fault.

Dear God, this man is heavy!

That's a curious thing for me to think. Why, of all things, would "Dear God" come to mind? The Dursleys were a devote, Christian family and made absolutely certain to let me know that God hated and would punish "freaks" like me. I even recall Uncle once saying that the physical beating he inflicted upon me were God's will. It certainly felt that way. No matter how much I prayed for the pain to stop, no matter how many times I begged for His forgiveness for the simple crime of being born into this world, no relief came.

So, why would that phrase come to mind?

I find myself in a rather gray area when it comes to this matter: I don't think that there's no such thing as a higher power, but, at the same time, I'm not sure what to believe when it comes to the idea of "God". Some have told me that He is kind to those in my situation; that He would see the good that I've done and is willing to forgive my sins. After all, that's why He sent His son to die on the Cross.

But, there are others who claim that I am a Devil worshipper. They claim that I am nothing more than a little demon boy sent by the Devil to destroy the foundation of their society. There was even a man named Pat Robinson who claimed that I had made a pact with the Devil. He claimed that I asked for demonic powers, which I would use to force people to live in a state of perpetual fear; in return I would destroy the foundations of the United States of America.

I'm no expert on religion, but I truly doubt that this "Devil" would seek the annihilation of one single nation and not the entire race of man. It's only logical. After all, Satan is supposed to desire the destruction of _everything_ that God creates, according to what I've heard from the Bible and Christian writers.

Unless I'm mistaken, Christians believe that God created everything, not just one nation. That being said, I don't know where Mr. Robinson is basing his ideas.

Next thing you know, he'll claim that an entire nation suffered a natural disaster because of some diving punishment for making a pact with the Devil. In fact, I wouldn't put it past him.

I've lost my focus again; I need to stop drifting off. If I lose focus, I'll lose control. If I lose control, bad things happen.

If I lose control, people could be hurt. Just like five years ago.

No, I won't let that happen again! I won't let my lack of control hurt people ever again. I am in control. I must always be in control.

I can see the hospital just ahead. Good, the sooner I can get this man inside, the more likely he will recover from his injuries. Now, if only he wasn't so heavy.

Suddenly, I hear sirens and see red and blue lights flashing against the pavement and buildings. The police. This isn't good; I don't trust the police, not since one distracted me by asking for a statement while his partner snuck up behind me with a taser.

Needless to say, I wasn't amused when I woke up. I made sure to let them know that after I escaped the room they left me locked in. Prior to that, I never knew that the police would accept bribes from mobsters.

I also didn't know that grown men made such odd sounds when their kneecaps are shattered, by one of their own nightsticks, to be honest. I suppose one really does learn something new every day.

Back to the present, two officers, both men of average height, step out of the police cruiser and pull their guns out of holsters. Sure enough, they take aim at me. How completely predictable; I do their job for them and even go out of my way to drag this unconscious man all the way here, and now I'm looking down the barrels of two standard issue guns, as if I were a criminal.

If I'm not a freak or a demon, then I really must've done something horrible in a past life to warrant my seemingly perpetual state of misfortune. That's the only other reason I can think of to rationalize this.

The first officer, presumably the higher ranking of the two, speaks first. "Drop that man and put your hands where I can see them! You are wanted for questioning by order of the Chief of Police."

He can't be serious. He wants me to leave this man, unconscious and bleeding, in the middle of the street? I guess logic is optional in his precinct.

I won't be belligerent; I'll just try to make him see reason. Hopefully, he'll at least let me get this man inside. I nod my head towards the unconscious man and respond in my dull and scratchy voice. "He needs medical attention."

They both jump, obviously they weren't expecting me to actually speak. I look at the younger officer and notice that the barrel of his gun is shaking, as are his knees. He's afraid. I can feel his fear coming off of him in waves; I can almost taste it. His partner, the senior officer, is no better. They're both terrified of me.

They've heard stories about me, no doubt. They've heard all of the ramblings of the criminals I don't use my powers on, or they've listened to the talk show hosts and political pundits who believe that I'm removing the competition in the criminal underground because I'm planning something big.

I'm not quite sure where they came up with that particular idea, nor am I sure that I even want to know.

"Paramedics are on their way," He responds, after regaining his composure. Well, regaining his 'professional' facial expression, really. "I'm only going to say this one more time: put that man down and put your hands in the air!"

I sigh and ease the man's body to the ground; I don't want to give him any more injuries than he already has. Really, this makes no sense whatsoever. "Why bother calling the paramedics?" I ask. "The hospital is barely one hundred feet behind you. I was taking him there before you arrived."

"You don't ask the questions here, kid!" Wonderful, he's one of _those_ officers: the ones who don't listen to any reason outside of the kneejerk decisions they make, no matter how unreasonable or illogical they are.

For some reason, I seem to deal with this type of officer more than any other. I might actually be onto something with that previous life hypothesis. I wonder what I did. Perhaps I got some perverse pleasure out of kicking puppies or stealing candy from small children, or something like that.

Anyways, I'm not dealing with this. They want paramedics to drive all of one hundred feet to pick this man up? Fine. As long as he gets treated sometime relatively soon, I don't care. Now, I just need to escape.

Sorry, but I'm just not going to go through with the red tape or whatever charges the Chief of Police tries to throw at me, especially when I'm doing the police's job every night. That being said, there were several ways I could attempt to execute this little getaway.

The first, and least likely to succeed, was to run. Both policemen are armed with guns and tasers, I wouldn't get far if I just turned tail and sprinted. The second, and nearly equally unlikely to work, would be to rush them and subdue them.

Again, they have guns and range. They'd have plenty of time to fire multiple rounds before I got close enough to fight them hand to hand. Also, I don't know what sort of martial arts training either of them might have, so even if I were able to get close enough, I'd be fighting blind. For all I know, one of them has actually had extensive training, whereas I only have the basics of a few different styles.

Without the element of surprise on my side, my usual tactics of ambushing and fighting feral won't win a fight against someone with extensive training. Just as having natural talent and no drive will make one weaker than he should be, having minimal training and all the determination in the world only makes for an average fighter.

In short, if I were to fight Nightwing, for example, I might be able to hold my own for a minute or so, before he overwhelmed me. That's only if he severely underestimates me. Otherwise, I won't last more than ten seconds, maximum.

I'm a realist; I don't bother trying to bolster my ego with false bravado. Anyone who thinks they can go one-on-one with one of Batman's protégés is, most likely, a blithering imbecile or clinically insane.

I haven't met any of the famous "Bat family" in person and I know better than that.

Option number three would be to use my powers and trap both of them in their worst nightmares, forcing them to relive them perpetually. I may not necessarily trust policemen, or even like the pair in front of me, but I do respect their choice to join law enforcement, so I'm going to say no to that option.

My final option is one that I'm not too keen on using. It's one of my powers, one of the ones I don't have full control over yet. As I am now, I only have control over my empathy and illusionary abilities, that's where my power to trap people in their worst nightmares comes from. My empathy isn't too much of a problem compared to my other powers, the ones that can really hurt people. To counter it, all I have to do is focus on clearing my mind and not allowing the emotions I sense take control of me.

This ability, this last resort, is one that I've used a few times before, but it exhausts me. I don't have much experience using it, because I've gone out of my way to avoid using most of my powers since that day five years ago. I made every effort to keep my powers in check since that day, that one bad day.

This time, I don't have a choice. I have to use one of _those_ powers, those more supernatural, dark abilities that I possess. I can't help but think that if people knew the powers I've kept secret, they'd realize that I'm more demonic than they initially thought.

I clear my mind and focus on passing through the ground beneath me, phasing through solid objects, if you will. As stated before, I don't have much practice doing this, so it takes a considerable amount of focus and energy. Luckily, I used very minimal energy in my most recent fight. However, there is still one major drawback to this power: I need shadows.

I can only phase myself into the ground if I'm standing on or near a shadowed area, again, this is probably due to my lack of experience. Unfortunately, I've not yet acquired the ability to phase myself through objects or teleport long distances as that blue cloak-wearing sorceress from the Teen Titans. If memory serves, her name is Raven. Yes, that's correct. I remember, because her powers are similar, yet far more advanced, to my own.

I wonder if she is the same as I am? I'll put that to the side and look into it later.

I really should stay focused.

It's true; I do require shadows to phase through objects, but that's not really an issue at the moment. Yes, I'm standing in the middle of the road, but at nighttime, everything's covered in shadows.

In short, this is where I'm at my strongest. Nighttime is when humans feel fear the most; they fear what might be awaiting them in the darkness.

I have the advantage. The darkness is my ally because it aids my ability to turn fear on those who prey on the weak, and enables me to escape even the worst of situations.

I feel the darkness crawling up my legs, covering me as if trying to protect me. I feel comfortable in its cold embrace. It may sound strange, but darkness has been my protector for as long as I can remember. Even when I was forced to live in the cupboard under the stairs, the darkness embraced me and held me as if I were its child.

The darkness is both my weapon and my shield.

I hear both men gasp as I begin to sink into the shadows, as if I'm melting into them. Suddenly, I hear the sound of a gunshot and a something slicing into the skin of my left shoulder. I hiss in pain and cover the wound with my right hand, feeling a sticky, warm liquid bleeding out. I look back at the men, and notice that the younger officer is shaking at the knees, his eyes widened in shock as he realizes what he's done. His hands are still holding the gun, but the recoil off the shot knocked them back so they were suspended perpendicular to his right shoulder.

I feel several different emotions rolling off of him in waves; most prevalent are shock and loathing. Though, for once, this loathing feeling isn't directed at me. His is directed inward. He's angry at… himself?

As much as my curiosity demands that I find out what this means, I'm rather occupied with the pain of the bullet wound registering with my brain, I can hear his breath, now coming in short, panicked gasps. He's hyperventilating. He probably pulled the trigger reflexively, I'm not sure I can fully blame him.

I need to get out of here, now, _I_ need medical attention or this wound will get infected. Of course, now I must abandon my previous plan of phasing down through the street and into the sewers, so I can make my escape underground. Now, I need to quickly think of a place to go, preferably before I lose concentration and end up phasing half of my body in the pavement, leaving me completely vulnerable.

Blasted, trigger happy rookie.

There is one place I could go, though I'm normally very wary of trusting anyone, the old man did help me last time. The fact that he's one of the religious men who believes that his God is merciful and loves his creations, even me, does help. Yes, I'll go there. He did say that I would always be a welcome guest in the Church.

I believe he told me something like "God opens his doors to all the people of the world, even the sinners, because he loves them despite their faults."

I'll admit that I had my doubts when he first said that. Mainly because he was treating the wounds I received when I had physically and verbally harassed by a televangelist. Between the two, I'd like to think the old priest who tried to help the sinners of the world was doing "God's work", as religious folk call it.

I give a mental command for the darkness to take me to the doorsteps of St. Juan Diego Church, and close my eyes as the world around me gives way to the darkness. I can feel it holding me tighter than normal, as if it's trying to embrace me and give assurance that all will be well.

The trip takes maybe half a minute, but, to me, it feels like an eternity. I fan feel the blood pouring out of my shoulder with every heartbeat, I need to get something to stem the flow. I can already feel the world spinning around me.

If that bullet only grazed my arm, I'll consider myself very lucky. The priest has stitched me up before, and he'll happily do it again.

Well… He'll lecture me for endangering my life _again_ while putting in the stitches.

If it's lodged inside, well, that's a different story. He may not have the tools to remove a bullet from muscle or bone. The only places I'll be able to go are hospitals. All of them ask for insurance and identification, I have neither, and they, unlike the imbeciles on the streets or doing news reports, will check if I give them one of my fake names.

The priest will make me go if he can't fix me up. He respects my wishes, but he won't allow me to walk around with a bullet stuck in me. He thinks I endanger myself enough as it is.

I arrive on the top step, mere feet away from the main entrance of the Church. It's still early evening, I would estimate that it's somewhere around eight or nine o' clock. He should still be here; the evening service should've ended a while ago.

If I'm wrong, then the congregation will simply be treated to the sight of their priest performing a true act of charity before their very eyes.

Oh, wonderful. Now his sarcasm is starting to rub off on me, just what I need. He'll never let me hear the end of it if he finds out.

If there's anything I've learned about the priest, he _always_ finds out. No matter how hard I try to hide things. If that man doesn't have some form of telepathy, I'm an idiot who fights a troll by jamming a stick up its nose.

Huh. Where did that come from?

I grip the door handle and pull, wincing as the hinges creak in protest. Someone should really oil those. The lights are still on and none of the patrons are present, as far as I can tell. I stumble and bump into one of the pews, the world around me is starting to spin. The pain and loss of blood are starting to take their toll on my body. I reach out to grab the side, but I miss.

My body impacting with the floor nearly brings me out of the dizzy spell, the thud echoes throughout the empty Church, amplified by the high ceilings and tile floor. But nobody's around to hear it, the patrons are gone and the priest is most likely in the back room. The door to the back room is thick, if it's shut, he won't hear anything coming from the main hall.

I'm going to bleed out on the floor of a Church. I, a "demon", a "Hell spawn", a "freak" am going to bleed out and die in the middle of a Holy place. Now _that_ is irony. If I wasn't worried that any loss of control might bring down the building, or if I even allowed myself to feel emotions, I might have actually laughed.

I don't. This isn't amusing at all; I'm probably just delirious due to blood loss and trauma. Figures, even in death I can't be normal. At least I won't bleed to death in an alley or a gutter, as I've often believed. At least now, someone who knows me will at least find my body and bury it, instead of leaving it to rot. I'm not even going to bother trying to drag myself to the altar steps; I know I don't have the energy. Fighting all day, losing so much blood, and using my powers has drained me of all my strength. The most I'll do is drain whatever sand is left in my hourglass.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, waiting for it to end. The pain, the loneliness, all of it. If this is my time, so be it. I've done as much good for the world as I could, if this is my time to be judged, I'm fine with that. Let me be judged for my actions and intent for once, instead of for my "unnaturalness."

I hear a man speaking in an accented voice. Though his tone is calm and collected, I hear the concern in his words. "Santo Dios, hijo, what have you done to yourself this time?" The priest has found me.

I groan and turn my head to the left, opening my eyes to look at him. Sure enough, the tan, middle-aged man is looking at me, brow quirked in a silent demand for an explanation. "Got shot," I grunt through the pain.

"I see," He sighs, stepping towards me. "And you decided to come in here at the dead of night to bleed all over my nice, clean floor and worry me with another of your tales, hijo?"

Despite the fact that I know he's only teasing me, his manner of coping with stress, I can't help but feel guilty. "I'm sorry, priest. I've been taking your help for granted, but you're the only one I can trust."

He sighs and shakes his head as he throws my right arm over his left shoulder and pulls me to my feet. "Apology accepted, hijo. Even the best of us take the smallest things for granted. I do, however, feel gratified that you've come to trust me with your identity. When I first met you, you seemed unwilling to trust _anyone_ to help you."

"I won't deny that I have issues trusting others…"

"If by issues, you mean that you refuse to trust or confide in anyone, save myself."

I shoot him a glare out of the corner of my eye. "I haven't had an easy life, priest. You know that."

He sighs and nods. "Yes, I know all too well. You've told me, hijo, but you need to find a way to move past that," Ah, he's going to talk about that earlier than usual. Usually, he waits until after he's patched me up. I must have given him quite the scare.

"That's easier said than done, priest. One moment, give me my arm back," He releases his hold on my arm and I bring it across my chest, grabbing at my left bleeding left shoulder. I put pressure on the wound in order to stem the flow, ignoring the renewed pain in my arm. I stumble again, but he quickly grabs me before my legs buckle. "Thank you."

"Slowly, hijo, don't push yourself." He chides me, moving one hand to grip my right shoulder, the other to my shoulder blades, steadying me and steering me towards a side exit. "Come, I should have a first aid kit in the rectory, and I believe that I have some of my old medical supplies from my days as a field medic."

Ah, yes. The priest was a field medic during Desert Storm. I'd completely forgotten about that detail.

"I do hope that your age hasn't robbed you of your steady hands, priest."

He shoots me a small glare out of the corner of his eye. I guess he caught on. "Cheeky brat. If you weren't already injured, I'd cuff you for that remark, hijo."

"I thought priests were supposed to be pacifistic in your religion."

"Even a priest is allowed to cuff a naughty boy upside the head when he disrespects his elders."

I give him one of my traditional blank stares, but quirk my own brow. "And if the priest is guilty of the teaching the boy to be sarcastic and disrespectful?"

"I'm quite sure that I've done no such thing, hijo. I'm appalled that you would make such claims." Of course, he would say something like that.

"I'm sure," I answer drily. "Now, as fun as I'm sure this is for you, can we please end this banter. I'd like to return to my work sometime soon, if you please."

He stopped suddenly and turned to face me. He didn't say a word; he just gave me his stern glare, waiting for me to figure out what he wanted.

"Not going to let me go back out?" I ask, my voice a mix of exasperation and incredulity.

"That is correct, hijo," He replies, unfazed by my stare. "Not until you've been treated to _my_ satisfaction –"

"Fine," I grumble.

" – Had a decent meal," He continues, as if I didn't interrupt him. "And a minimum of two hours rest." His tone tells me that he won't accept any argument I may come up with.

I heave a sigh and begin walking on my own. "Let's just get this over with, priest."

He catches up with me and places his hand on my shoulder to steady me, again. "I was just about to make chicken noodle soup," He's completely brushing off my attempts to convey my displeasure. "You can eat while you brood, while stressing my aging heart with your tales, and I will put in the stitches myself. I'm sure it will be _delightful_."

"_Fine_." Now, I'm starting to get annoyed.

I'm really hoping he got the message this time. He might've got his way on the heath issues, but he really shouldn't test my patience with his obsession with getting the last word in. It's been a couple of minutes; perhaps he's going to let me off the hook. Or maybe he realizes that my mood is caused partially by the amount of pain I'm in, and has decided to let this round go.

"Oh, and by the way," He adds, suddenly. "That part about the stitches… _that_ is sarcasm, hijo."

Damn stubborn priest.

**LINE BREAK**

"All right, Dick," Kid Flash says in a jovial tone, lounging in his seat and putting his feet up on the table. "What did ya find? What's the story? Who's the kid?"

A couple of the other Titans shot the yellow and red-garbed speedster a glare of annoyance; he was being too hyper for their taste. Deep down, they were as interested in whatever Nightwing had managed to dig up as he was, but they could only tolerate so much and only at certain times.

Now was definitely not the time.

An eighteen-year-old woman with pale skin, dark blue hair, a long, flowing blue cloak and matching blue dress responded in her dry voice. "Get your feet off the table and kindly act your age, Wallace. I deal with quite enough immaturity in this Cave with Garfield around."

"Hey!" Beast Boy cried indignantly, shooting a glare at his longtime teammate. "I'm not immature at all, Raven!"

The former Boy Wonder quirked a brow, his response was normal, but it didn't carry Garfield's characteristic outrage. It was almost as if it were practiced… He was missing something here.

"Of course you are. You're adequately mature if I compare you to a two-year-old." She said sarcastically.

Despite her tone, Nightwing noticed a small upward quirking of her lips, indicating that she was secretly enjoying her traditional game with her green-skinned teammate. Were they… having fun? Raven and Garfield were having fun teasing one another? Together?

He'd have to file that away for later teasing.

"All right, children, that's enough!" Nightwing chided. Though he wasn't in the best of moods, he could still crack a joke or two in an attempt to mask how stressed and angry he really was. Well, he'd mask it too all except for Raven. She could read his emotions like an open book. Damn observant empath. "We do have some rather important information to discuss."

Superboy folded his arms over his chest. "So, get on with it, Dick. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm getting tired of playing hide and seek with this kid. I want answers."

"Ease up, Conner," Supergirl scolded. "Don't go making snap decisions without the full story. We still don't know who this kid is or what his plans are."

"Well," Nightwing began. "As to who he is, I do have a few known aliases, including his most well-known one, and a possible link to his true identity. The link is a bit of a long shot, but anything's possible at this point." As he spoke, activated the table's touch screen functions, and brought up the Wraith files, dispersing them to each Titan, so they could individually look over the information. "I've compiled data on his actions in various cities across North America, each one of them have common themes: brutality, psychological damage to the victims, and his most known moniker, 'the Wraith.'"

Individual screens came to life in front of each Titan, displaying the evidence Nightwing had gathered. Cyborg's technology really made these briefings easy. He had come up with the idea of making the table in the Assembly Hall into a touch screen computer.

"Jesus," Kid Flash breathed, as he skimmed through a few of the news articles. "They really do add to the mystery behind this kid. I mean, listen to these titles from Chicago: 'Wraith Haunts Madison Avenue. Six Hospitalized', 'The Nightmare Continues: Wraith Sends Three to Hospital, Two to Madhouse', 'Urban Myth No More, Wraith Sends Corrupt Cops to E.R.', and a whole host of others. Man, if this kid wasn't giving us such a hard time, I'd be a fan."

"They seem to really focus on this 'Wraith' moniker," Aqualad said, speaking for the first time. "Other than a few very brief mentions, they don't mention his chosen aliases at all."

"That's because they don't lead anywhere," Nightwing replied tiredly. "I've checked, each one begins and dies with a Wraith story, no matter which one you choose."

Cyborg studied an article for a moment, before deciding to weigh in. "I don't know about that, Dick. Unless I'm mistaken, a few of these came from the Robert Ludlum _Bourne_ series. I've got three right here from different stories about him: Cain, one of Jason Bourne's aliases; Carlos Chacal, Chacal is Spanish for 'Jackal', Carlos the Jackal was Bourne's arch-nemesis; and, of course, what Jason Bourne based alias list is complete without using Jason Bourne himself? If anything, I can dig his taste in fiction."

"Oh, right, I forgot about the exceptions. He pulled a couple aliases from some notable sources, but the rest… The rest don't exist. Not in any work of fiction, nothing. There's no trace. The information begins and ends with a Wraith story."

"Wait a minute," Beast Boy interjected. "Let's back up a second. How does this kid even get these names to stick? I mean, by all accounts, he's a migrant hero, a street kid. He wouldn't have the money or the resources to make a bunch of fake ID's."

"The answer is more simple than you think: he tells people. If someone asks him for a name, he gives one. He probably just goes by rotation so he doesn't forget them, but the names I can't find on any database are the ones he uses most frequently."

"You mind running them by us to save us all the time of looking through each story?" Superboy asked. "As fun as it is to read about him beating a mugger over the head with a crowbar - and believe me, I enjoyed that one - I'd like to get to the important information sometime today."

"Fair enough," Nightwing replied, ignoring the Kryptonian clone's abrasive nature. He pressed a few buttons on the screen, taking control of all screens and toggling them to show a file with several pictures. Each picture was of the same pale skinned boy with a blank expression, but each had a different name listed under it. "His most used aliases, in no particular order, are as follows: James Potter, Lee Evans, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Manny McGonagall, Severus Snape, Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore. None of these names come up in any database I've searched, including searches into European records."

The Titans were silent, each of them racking their brains and conducting their own database searches to find something to link the names. Nothing. They didn't really expect to find anything other than what Nightwing had said; he did have the most detective experience, after all. Each of them simply refused to believe that there was no connection; this was their only lead! They couldn't afford to hit a dead end now!

"This is infuriating!" Supergirl grumbled in annoyance. "How can one boy be so damn impossible to identify? He has to have made a mistake somewhere along the line!"

"I agree," Miss Martian added. "He's obviously skilled at escaping detainment and hiding his identity, but nobody is perfect; he has to have slipped up somewhere. He can't avoid leaving DNA samples behind via bloodstains or fingerprints."

"He has, but it doesn't matter if they're not in the database," Nightwing threw in. "There have been blood samples, hair, fingerprints, et cetera, but none of the previous entries in Canadian or American databases match his DNA sequence. Which is why I said that my long shot hunch is still a possibility."

"Then why not check the European hospitals and forensics labs for matches," Cyborg asked. "Didn't you just say that you had access to their records?"

"Yes and no. I asked Batgirl for a favor and she was happy to help me access their systems."

Supergirl snickered. "You mean she was happy to help _after_ she got her kicks by taking a few shots at your expense."

"As I said, she was happy to help," Nightwing continued, pointedly ignoring the round of laughter that followed the Kryptonian girl's remark. They really knew him and Barbara too well.

"So, why not just ask her to do it again?" Miss Martian asked.

"Her area of expertise is gathering information via the Internet, not DNA analysis. The only one with more experience and knowledge in that field is Batman. I'd prefer to deal with this without bringing him into this."

While the others debated with Nightwing on the pros and cons of contacting the World's Greatest Detective, Raven stayed silent and continued reading. Truth be told, this boy, this 'Wraith', fascinated her. She didn't necessarily approve of his brutality, but his powers and lack of concern for fame or notoriety did appeal to her. His most known ability, 'The Fear Stare' as coined by the Toronto Sun, was certainly impressive. In fact, it was similar to her ability to create illusions based on the fear of others.

For the briefest of moments, she considered the possibility that Trigon may have sired another child. The prospect was a bit frightening; if the boy was the child of Trigon, there was a chance that he could turn hostile at an instant, even if he had given no previous indication that he was aligned with the inter-dimensional demon.

If he deemed the Titans, or humanity as a whole, to be his enemies, he could give Trigon full control of his body. Or worse, he could bring their father to this plane. Either way, if his allegiance was to Trigon, it would spell disaster.

At the same time, it would be… nice… Yes, it would be nice to have a brother, to have family other than a demonic father bent on destroying humanity. If he was anything like her, if he tried to defy Trigon, perhaps he could be reasoned with. Perhaps, dare she say it; she could convince him to stay. If they truly were family, if Trigon had sired another child in his mad attempt to plunge the world into darkness, they should stay together.

As she studied each article, she kept finding more evidence to support her theory. Whether it was a tale of him phasing through a wall to escape arrest, or streetlights mysteriously shattering when he was under duress, or even one or two mentions of his eyes glowing red when he was angered, her theory was proving to be more likely by the minute. Their powers were definitely similar in nature; if he wasn't sired by Trigon, he was at least somewhat influenced by her demonic father.

Raven quickly discarded that last theory; if he were under Trigon's influence, he wouldn't be going out of his way to fight criminals and help others, he'd be more likely to add to each city's darkness so he had more to prey on. Unless her father's puppets had developed a sense of nobility since their last meeting, which she highly doubted, he wasn't being directly controlled at the moment.

Either way, the Titans needed to find him before Trigon's influence began to overtake his own will. Whether he turned out to be her brother or not, they had to take action to prevent Trigon's return to this realm.

She spoke up, her low, dry voice bringing her teammates' debate to a screeching halt. "His powers seem similar to mine."

"What?" Cyborg said after a moment of silence. "You don't mean –"

"Yes," She continued. "There is a possibility that the Wraith is another child of Trigon. It's only a theory at the moment, but, if all of these stories are accurate, the evidence supports it. His illusionary powers, his phasing ability, even the fact that his eyes glow _red_ and split into two pairs; all of it shows signs of Trigon's influence or parentage."

Her teammates' faces tensed with worry, even the newer members had heard of Trigon's wrath. Of all of the Titans' enemies, he was the most feared. Who could blame them? He had the power to wipe out all life on the planet, and the ability to manipulate others to do his bidding.

Aqualad cleared his throat, and spoke in a nervous tone. "If he's Trigon's child –"

"Don't get too far ahead," Nightwing interrupted. "We can't assume to know his allegiances, even if Raven's theory is correct. After all, Raven has proven her own loyalty in our battles against her father time and time again. For now, we will reserve judgment until he is questioned."

Raven nodded in appreciation. "Thank you, Richard, your trust in me is gratifying. Now, I believe you mentioned that you had a 'long shot hunch', as you called it. Please share it with us, we need all information disclosed if we are to find him."

Nightwing noticed Starfire's hands clenching again, and winced. She was obviously still quite angry. "Ah… yes," He said, uncharacteristically stammering for an instant, a tick that each Titan picked up on immediately. "Well, there are two stories that give a hint to Wraith's identity; both stories come from Little Whinging, a neighborhood in Surrey, England, and are directly connected to one another. The first says that a young boy named Harry Potter saved his classmates from gunmen, who were going to hold them for ransom. The gunmen were taken to the emergency room, each of them screaming in terror as they saw their worst fears come to life. Sound familiar?"

"Sounds exactly the same as every other story," Superboy answered. "So, mystery solved, Harry Potter is the Wraith. Now, let's stop talking and start searching!"

"Not quite yet, we still don't know for sure. We can't just assume that the two are connected based on one story, we need more concrete evidence, like DNA samples or a matched physical profile, preferably both."

"Which means that you _do_ have to call up Bats!" Kid Flash said with a grin. "Sucks to be you, Dick!"

Nightwing shot him a glare. "Shut up, Wally. Not the time. Moving on, the second story was printed the very next day; the night before, the same day he saved the school, his relatives' house in Little Whinging collapsed, killing his Aunt and Uncle, and grievously wounding his cousin. Harry, himself, sustained injuries, but was still able to pull his cousin out from under the rubble and drag him to the nearest hospital. He dragged his unconscious, bleeding cousin _three miles_."

Beat Boy whistled. "Wow, that's impressive. Not that I want to take anything away from him, but why didn't he just ask one of the neighbors for help? Or the police?"

"I was getting to that. Reporters interviewed the neighborhood adults and children, and came up with some rather unpleasant stories. The adults claimed that he was nothing more than a troublesome, future criminal, who deserved every punishment his relatives doled out to him. The children said that he was 'dark' and 'weird', going on to say that they had bullied him, physically and verbally. So, on one hand, we have the self-righteous adults, stating that his relatives were upstanding citizens and right for 'disciplining such an obviously criminal boy' and the children who spoke of the 'weird, freak at the back of the classroom'. Some of the kids even bragged about 'teaching the freak a lesson'." Nightwing sighed. There, now it was all out in the open. So, who would be the first to cry out in fury; personally, his money was on Garfield or Victor, or perhaps even Kara or Conner.

**CRASH!**

He was wrong. Someone else had lost her composure. Someone who normally had full control over her emotions; someone with a temper _far_ worse than he was prepared to deal with.

Part of the wall behind Raven exploded outward, showering the group with dust and fragments of rock. Though she wasn't shaking with fury as Starfire had earlier, each Titan could see her tensed shoulders and winced as her eyes began to glow red. Even Superboy inched away from the furious sorceress, not wanting to be anywhere near the line of fire.

Magic was one of the few things he wasn't impervious to.

Raven wasn't angry; she was beyond anger at this point. There isn't a word to describe the levels of her rage. If Wraith was Harry Potter, if he was her brother, there would be a reckoning. If an entire community dared to abuse _her_ flesh and blood, she would return the favor one thousand fold!

She rose to her feet and turned to leave the room. She only made it two steps before Nightwing reached her.

He gripped her shoulder tightly, halting her in mid-stride. "Don't."

She hissed with rage and turned to face him, he didn't flinch as she glared at him through her four narrowed, glowing red eyes. "Take your hand off of me, Richard!" She growled in warning. "Do not get in my way!"

"Raven, I need you to calm down," He pressed. "I need you to be focused."

"Focused?" She spat venomously. "They abused a child, a child who may very well be _my_ brother! _My family_! Who are you to tell me to calm down? Who in Azar's name are you to stand in my way?"

"I'm your friend," He said, his eyes softening slightly as the memories of his own losses resurfaced. His parents, the people of Blüdhaven, even Jason Todd. "I know exactly how it feels to lose family, both by blood and by bond. Damn it, Raven, I know."

Raven could feel his sincerity, her empathy allowed her to feel the emotions of all of her teammates. Concern. They were concerned, both for her and for Harry. She mentally cursed Nightwing for being right, again. Damn, smart-mouthed acrobat. How she wanted to go to Surrey for answers, oh, how she wanted to rip the information from their feeble minds before subjecting them to every torment they levied against the boy.

She would listen to Nightwing. They had to find Wraith and determine his identity first; she had to find whether or not he was related to her. Yes, she would be calm and listen to Nightwing, for now. Once they found Wraith, once she knew for sure what their connection was, she'd make her decision.

Actually, if Harry Potter turned out to be the Wraith, but not her brother, she still might pay the neighborhood a little visit. From the looks of it, Starfire would be joining her on that little excursion.

"Fine," She whispered, her eyes returning to their normal color and her voice losing the 'hissing' effect. Without a word, she returned to her seat and looked down at the floor, silently brooding. The Titans left her alone, they knew better than to bother her when she was in this sort of mood.

Even Beast Boy knew that now was definitely not the time for one of his less than brilliant moments. Of course, he wasn't exactly calm and collected at the moment.

Secretly, he was just as enraged as his half-demon teammate. Behind his happy-go-lucky, jokester nature, Beast Boy hid his past. The trauma of losing his parents, being ridiculed for having green skin, his past as a member of the Doom Patrol; all of it had taken its toll on Garfield Logan. He might cope with it differently, but he still felt the pain. He still woke up in a cold sweat after his nightmares; after seeing their faces floating in the darkness.

He was furious. Right now, he wasn't separating his emotions from his business, as Dick was able to. Beast Boy, Garfield Logan, it didn't matter. He was angry. But he'd hide it, just as he always had. The team needed Beast Boy, the hero, not Beast Boy, the raging animal. That would be for later. That was for when they'd found all the information they needed.

Right now, he'd let cooler heads prevail, and stick to the matter at hand. "So, we need to get a sample of his DNA and see if there's anything in England to compare it to, right?"

"Yes," Nightwing said, glad to be back on track. "There is good news on that matter: the hospital he dragged his cousin to has a sample of his blood. The staff members present that night said that he was dripping blood all over the floor, but he phased out before they could treat him."

"Self-reliant," Superboy said with an appreciative nod. "Admirable. But self-reliance can be a hindrance, if one grows too accustomed to it."

"Indeed, it can," Starfire added. "Even on Tamaran, our warriors know the value of admitting when one needs the aid of his comrades. Walking out of the hospital despite his injury and fatigue was quite brave, but very foolish."

"I agree completely, but that's another item to be dealt with later. For now, we need to get a recent sample, analyze it, and compare it up against the samples of Harry Potter's blood. In light of this, I've taken steps to give us notice whenever certain keywords come up on the police scanners: any time one of his aliases is mentioned, the computer will pick it up and send an alert to each of us. We'll move in on his most recent location, and then fan out our search from there. Raven, we'll be relying on your abilities to track him, especially if he phases away." The sorceress nodded in consent, still remaining silent.

"And then what?" Kid Flash asked. "We find him and, what, bring him back here so we can take samples of his blood? I doubt he's going to respond well to that."

"I'd prefer not to resort to that," Nightwing sighed. "I'd prefer to just question him to get his motives, maybe confirm his identity. I don't want to push him too far, but if he doesn't cooperate, we might have to."

Cyborg considered their options for a moment, and voiced his concern. "It's a pretty heavy risk, Dick. If we do push him too far and Raven's right, we might unleash the fury of one of Trigon's kids onto the world. Hell, it might be enough to convince him to let Trigon use him as a portal to this world!"

"I know, believe me, I don't want this. If I could, I'd find a way to arrange a meeting with him at a neutral site. I'd even let him pick a place where he didn't feel threatened if I knew that he'd actually show up and be willing to talk civilly. God damn it, I would _love_ to meet him in a damn coffee shop and discuss this as if talking to a friend, but I can't. Because of how he operates, I don't have a choice but to take this course of action."

Each Titan could see the toll this case was taking on their leader, he usually never let his frustrations out in the open like this. Normally, he was the one holding it together for the sake of the team. His worries were obvious, and warranted. He was truly wary of the possibility that the Wraith might go dark on them, it had already happened once. Jason Todd, Nightwing's successor to the mantle of Robin, had been driven mad by the Lazarus Pit and became prone to torture and murder as a way to fight crime. He essentially became the very thing he was fighting against.

Nightwing didn't want that to happen a second time. Jason Todd as the Red Hood was more than enough trouble in that regard; if Wraith followed the same path, there was a significant chance that they could be faced with an even more dangerous version of the Scarecrow.

Suddenly, the alarm went off. The computer screens on the table began flashing "Urgent Alert" notifications. Something had been picked up on the police scanner.

Nightwing dashed over to his screen and pressed a few buttons, bringing up the information. He gasped in shock; he couldn't possibly be this lucky. He blinked a couple times to clear his eyes, and looked again. It was real. On the display, the very words he'd been praying for appeared in bold lettering:

"_Priority Alert 972484: Wraith Sighting!"_

The realization that this may be his best, and only, chance to get a better lead on the Wraith jolted Nightwing out of his shock. He quickly read through the information, and couldn't help but feel a bit of hope. Wraith had been sighted near Jump City General Hospital and had suffered a non-fatal gunshot wound after a police officer fired upon him. He'd phased through the street to escape, but he also left blood at the scene.

The fact that the boy had been shot, by a police officer no less, angered him, but Nightwing would take it. It was the only chance he'd likely get to find the boy's true identity. Of course, now that meant there was no avoiding the fact that he needed to contact Batman to get the analysis from England; but, at this point, Nightwing would gladly work with his brooding former teacher.

He bounded toward the elevator, barking out orders as he went. "Everyone move out! Starfire, Miss Martian and Supergirl, take the skies and search from there! Speedy, Aqualad and Kid Flash, he escaped by phasing through the street, so search the sewers! Cyborg, Superboy and Beast Boy, patrol the streets! I'll join you after I examine the scene! Raven," The sorceress raised her stoic gaze from the floor and stared at her long-time friend and leader. Nightwing paused; he could tell that she was still shaken up by the information. She might hide it well, but he could see through her. His voice softened a bit, his order more of a request than anything. "I need you at the scene, you can track where he's phased to with your powers."

Raven didn't answer; she merely lowered her gaze to the floor again. Truth be told, she wanted to find Wraith, but she was afraid. She was afraid that she wouldn't be able to control herself if he had been abused as Nightwing suggested. The mere thought had already set her off in front of her friends; maybe it would be best if she stayed behind. Nightwing hadn't given an order; he'd made a request. She didn't have to go.

"Raven," He called softly as his other teammates rushed out of the Assembly Hall. "Please."

No. There was no option. She had to go. Whether or not she was afraid of what she might find, she had to go. Not for the city, not for her sense of duty, but for herself. For once, she would be selfish. For once, she would actually _want_ something.

If Wraith was related or connected to her, in any way, she'd be damned if he was left to wander the streets, hated and alone. She rose from her seat and walked into the elevator.

"We find him tonight," She said, barely above a whisper as she walked past Nightwing.

He nodded, turning and following her as he spoke. "We'll try."

She turned to glare at him. "We _will_. Tonight. No exceptions."

Nightwing blinked in surprise as the doors closed behind them and the elevator began its descent. She was being oddly assertive on this matter. Usually, she was quiet, speaking only to offer strategic advice or to silence Beast Boy.

Then again, she did just find out that someone who may or may not be her brother had been living on the streets alone, and had possibly been abused. That being said, he really shouldn't be surprised. It was just so unusual for Raven to be the emotionally compromised member of the team.

"You sure you're okay?" He whispered to her. "I know this is a bit new to you, so –"

Raven sighed in frustration. "Richard, I have just found out, for the first time, that I might not be alone in this world; that I might have some living family other than my father. To add to the novelty of this idea, you have also informed me that he has lived on the streets, alone, for at least five years _and_ that there is a possibility that he comes from an abusive home. How exactly would you like me to react? Should I be happy that he has lived a life of isolation and is hated and feared by a significant portion of the general public? Should I take solace in the fact that he has suffered similar pain as I have? Please, tell me, how exactly should I feel?"

"No! God, no!" Nightwing protested. "I don't expect you to enjoy another's suffering, especially if he may very well be your brother! I – I'm concerned. I may not know from personal experience what it's like to find a lost relative, but I do care, Raven. We all do."

"You have an odd way of showing it," She shot back. "You plan to drag him to the Cave so you can take samples of his blood, lock him in a room, and interrogate him. How exactly is that going to help him? You may be able to convince the others, but I know better. If he's resisted Trigon's influence before and we show that we're untrustworthy, he'll be more likely to join my father, just as Victor said."

"What would you have me do? I'd love to trust him, but I can't risk the lives of innocent people. Contrary to what you may think, I do want to help him, but I need solid proof that he's not going to be a threat."

Raven stayed silent for a while, not saying another word until the elevator doors opened to reveal the garage level. She followed Nightwing out, making a decision as she went.

"Leave him to me," She ordered. "You and the others can search for his identity, you can even help me find him, but once we do, I will be the one to confront him."

"Raven –"

"I know what it's like," She cut him off. "I know what it's like to grow up alone, just as he has. I know what it's like having to bottle my emotions to control my powers, just as it seems he has. He won't respond well to being cornered, I'm sure of that. But, he'll respond worse to someone who presumes to understand without truly knowing his pain. I can connect with him on that level."

Nightwing made as if to argue the point, but Raven's glare stopped him in his tracks. Further angering her probably wasn't best for his long-term health. Not a good idea at all. Better just to smile, nod, and let the scary, half-demon, sorceress have her way.

Raven stopped and gave him an annoyed look, making him wince. He'd forgotten that she could hear other people's thoughts. He smiled nervously and tried to steer the conversation away from the impending disappointed lecture. "I see your point," He said quickly. "If you're sure about this, then we'll let you handle the situation. Just let me get the Blackwing and –"

He felt Raven grab his shoulder tightly. "Not fast enough."

Nightwing didn't have a chance to react before a black dome sprang forth from the floor and enclosed the two. The dome then shifted into the form of a giant, black Raven and took flight, phasing through the mountain and flying toward Jump City General Hospital at breakneck speed.

Damn it, he hated travelling via Raven's soul self.

**Line Break**

Police officers and forensic investigators scrambled for cover as the giant raven swooped down and impacted with the ground. As soon as its claws touched solid ground, the raven shifted back into a dome. The black dome began to melt away, revealing the blue-garbed sorceress and her shuddering leader.

Nightwing absolutely hated travelling this way. He had nothing against Raven's heritage or her powers, but whenever he went along for the ride, it just felt so weird to him. Her phasing and long-range flying abilities always made that eerie cold shiver run down his spine.

He turned to face his companion, glowering at her through his mask. "Could you at least give me a warning before you do that?"

Raven ignored his complaining and strode toward to the taped off area of Main Street. One policeman made as if to tell her that she couldn't approach the area, but her heated glare silenced him and made him take a few steps back. In fact, everyone seemed to bake away from her, parting like the Red Sea and giving her a very wide berth.

No one wanted to be anywhere near the angry sorceress. She was frightening enough when she was calm.

Raven ducked under the yellow police tape and approached what she assumed was the scene of the incident. Frankly, it was a safe guess; the bloodstain on the concrete and the team of forensic investigators bringing out their equipment was enough of a hint.

"Leave," She ordered.

One of them, presumably the leader of the team, drew himself up to his full height and spoke authoritatively. "Who are you to tell us to leave? This is our investigation! If anything, _you_ and your friend are the ones slowing everything up and contaminating the evidence!"

During his brief rant of self-importance and authority, he didn't notice the very obvious signs that Raven's patience was wearing quite thin. He barely registered the fact that her eyes were beginning to glow white as her powers activated. He didn't even notice the fact that his forensic investigation team was backing away, whimpering in fear as the young woman's heated glare intensified.

Fortunately for him, he was spared by the rather timely intervention of Nightwing, who, while sharing Raven's annoyance, didn't feel like explaining why there were bits and pieces of one of JCPD's forensic scientists scattered all over the middle of Main Street to the mayor.

Yeah, that would be a fun conversation.

"Stand down Raven," He ordered, stepping in between the angry sorceress and the man currently drawing her ire. Nightwing turned to the man and addressed him. "As far as who is in charge of the investigation, you'll find that my team is more qualified to see it through properly."

The man's face turned an ugly shade of red and he began breathing heavily, obviously not appreciating the comment. "Listen here, bird-boy," Nightwing mentally rolled his eyes. No one had original insults anymore. "I'm here on official business as part of the JCPD! You get that? This is _our_ case, _our_ jurisdiction."

"That's where you're wrong," Nightwing replied with a smirk, pulling a slip of paper out of one of the many pouches on his utility belt. "This is a signed statement from the mayor which places this case under the jurisdiction of the Teen Titans. In short, we're here on official business, _you_ are the one slowing us down and contaminating the evidence." Nightwing's smirk grew as the man's indignant outburst was now reduced to a pathetic stammer.

"This is ridiculous!" He shouted. "Why the Hell would the mayor grant jurisdiction to a bunch of vigilante kids?"

"Obviously, he grew tired of watching your department make a complete mess out of this case for the past two weeks."

"T-That –"

"Unless you have a piece of paper that looks exactly like the one I have right here, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises," Nightwing said, raising an eyebrow as if daring the man to object further.

The man scowled, but thought better of it. He turned back to his team, signaling for them to pack up their equipment and head back to the station, but not before delivering one final parting shot over his shoulder. "Never thought I'd see the day where the damn mayor puts the law in the hands of a bunch of punk kids instead of trusting the men and women who wear a badge. Disgraceful!"

Nightwing walked past him, approaching the bloodstain on the ground, firing off his own retort as he went. "You and I have different definitions of the word 'disgraceful'. For example, I find the fact that you cheated on your wife with that prostitute last Thursday quite disgraceful. Disgusting, even."

"W-What the – How the Hell did you –"

"I have my ways," Nightwing said cryptically. "Now, kindly remove yourself or I'll have my friend escort you to your vehicle." The man winced as Raven's eyes began to take on a threatening glow. "Your call."

Raven watched, slightly amused, despite the circumstances surrounding the case, as the man walked away, defeated. She turned to her masked teammate, and decided that she couldn't resist asking. "How did you know?"

"Like I said, I have my ways," He replied, his smirk growing a bit mischievous. "Now, let's get back on track. Can you examine the scene for traces of his powers?"

She nodded in response, bringing her hands out from under her cloak and holding them out over the bloodstained area. "Yes. If his powers are as similar to mine as I believe, I should be able to track his movements by searching for traces of his powers."

"You can track his powers by trace?" Nightwing asked, slightly impressed.

"My best theory is that he uses some form of magic that is, at the very least, similar to mine. He may not use it to the extent that I do, but he wields it. Magic is not a weapon that can be brought out and then put away in storage; it's part of us. Magic is not something that can be quantified and limited to a person's core, the amount of magic one wields depends on what they are capable of wielding."

"I see," Nightwing said, trying to wrap his head around the concept. "So, people like Doctor Fate and Zatanna are able to use powerful magic because they are naturally capable of handling such a high capacity for it?

Raven stiffened at the mention of the Justice Leagues resident magician. Nightwing mentally slapped himself for forgetting Raven's history with her; it wasn't exactly a happy one. "Not quite" She said, in a clipped tone. "Their natural affinity for magic grants them the ability to wield it, both of them honed their skills with years of study and practice. In a way, it is similar to how you honed your martial arts while under Batman's tutelage."

"Right," Now he understood a bit better. "So, what does that have to do with him leaving traces of magic?"

"Think of it like how predators track their prey using smell, hearing or vision. One cannot simply tell their magic to stop flowing through and around them; it's as constant as a heartbeat. In essence, it's just as necessary for us as a heartbeat. Once I familiarize with his magic, his signature, if you will, I will be able to track and find him."

"Perfect! While you're doing that, I'll just collect a sample of his blood and –"

"No!" She snapped, stopping him in his tracks. "I need this spot undisturbed while I work, or it becomes more difficult for me to identify the type of magic he used."

"I thought they said he just phased himself through the ground."

Raven shook her head. "No, he didn't. That was one of the first spells I tested for. I've narrowed it down to a few illusion spells or –" She stopped suddenly, eyes widening as the realization hit her. "Teleportation!"

"Teleportation?" Nightwing parroted. "The report said that the cops watched him sink down _through the street_! Isn't that phasing?"

"Not necessarily. Phasing would imply that he simply went through a wall or the ground beneath him; teleporting is a different matter entirely. The method he used may have _looked _like phasing due to the appearance that he sunk into the shadows, but the magical signature suggests that he teleported. With teleportation, he could, theoretically, be out of the city, depending on how capable or experienced he is."

"You've got to be kidding me!" He shouted in frustration. "You mean to tell me that we're right back where we started? That he slipped through the cracks _again_?"

"Calm yourself, Nightwing," She admonished. "I said that I have _my_ ways of tracking him, and I do. Fortunately, I am capable of using a spell to find the location he teleported to. However," She said, cutting off his next interruption. "It will require my full concentration. Do not interrupt me."

The 'or else' was, quite obviously, implied.

Raven began chanting in a language that Nightwing had never encountered before. If he were to pose any sort of a guess, he would have to say that it was some sort of Druidic or demonic spell. Either was possible, considering her dual heritage.

Perhaps this was the language of Raven's home, Azarath.

She closed her eyes, still chanting the spell under her breath as she waited for a vision of Wraith's destination to appear in her mind's eye.

She could see a large, wooden door, flanked by stained glass windows on either side. The architecture style seemed to be very simplistic, nothing overly fancy or impressive aside from the windows or the height of the building. The building itself was definitely two stories, which would normally suggest that the building could be a warehouse or a motel.

Stained glass, however, was a bit _too_ fancy, not to mention expensive, for either of those to be true. So, she discarded those options.

Her eyes snapped open as the information clicked. A Church. He'd teleported himself to St. Juan Diego Church, just a few blocks away from her current location.

"I found him," She whispered, calling upon her magic to teleport her to the fugitive boy's location. "I'm going."

It took Nightwing a moment to realize what she meant by that, by then it was too late. A familiar shroud of darkness began to envelope his hooded companion, her body began to sink into the ground.

"Wait! Raven!" He shouted as she vanished from sight. He heaved a sigh of frustration. "Great, just great! Don't tell me where he is! Just leave me here with no idea where you've gone, and no transportation!"

Nightwing lifted his left arm up, as if looking at a watch, and entered in a command code on his gauntlets. After entering the code, he sent a command through a secure radio frequency for the Blackwing to drive itself to his location using its autopilot function.

Now, all he could do was wait.

Then again, the wait did give him ample time to collect a sample of Wraith's blood and have that talk with Batman. Might as well make use of the time he had.

**LINE BREAK**

I winced as I pulled my left arm through the sleeve of my hoodie. The priest had done a good job of stitching up the wound, but the pain was definitely still there.

According to him, the bullet had gone through the top of my left bicep, the pain I was feeling was a combination of both the skin and muscle being cut into. In short, I would be unable to fight at full capacity for quite some time.

I still refused to go to a hospital, despite his insistence. The wound is sewn shut and cleaned, I can survive with a little bit of pain. I've been living with a different sort of pain for as long as I could remember.

As I walk down the staircase, towards the front door of the rectory, I can't help but sigh. The other priests and deacons were nice enough whenever I visited, but they didn't trust me nor did they particularly enjoy my company. They don't say it, but I can sense it. They're suspicious of me; they're suspicious of what I do with my powers and what I _could_ do with them.

I suppose I can't blame them. As I've said previously, I don't do myself any favors with how I handle criminals. The 'decent' citizens don't like that. They hated it when heroes like Batman first started brutalizing criminals in Gotham. They claimed that he was everything wrong with society; that he was just an insane man in a mask and a cape who went around terrorizing the people.

That's what they said about a man with no powers, just his own unique skill set and supply of gadgets. Imagine what they say when I, a boy with terrifying power, first started.

Earlier, I gave you a _very_ censored version of what Reverend Roberts and others have said about me. The full account is quite unflattering and reeks of a collective sense of self-righteousness, self-importance, and moral superiority.

Fun fact, those are the same reasons that the Europeans began forcibly converting the Native Americans to Christianity or began massacring entire tribes. They were condemned as savages, just because they didn't follow the Christian God, dressed differently, and didn't believe in the concept of owning land.

See why I generally try to stay away from the so-called 'religious leaders' who spew forth their doctrine on national television? I do not speak of religious people as a whole, but these leaders are often as radical as they paint their enemies to be.

It's a case of the blind leading the blind to fight the blind, who are, in turn, lead by the blind. Sometimes, I wonder whether it's actually _they_ who are the monsters, and not I.

I can't help but shudder at that thought. Some actually follow and believe what they say; it's a bit disturbing to think that so many would listen to the words of madmen. Of course, it's not just the religious or Conservatives who think I'm in the wrong.

Apparently, my approach is too violent for the Liberals in Congress to accept. I've read a few articles in which various Senators or Representatives who praise my desire to help people, but then turn around and try to reprimand me for being too heavy handed.

I didn't realize that I was supposed to walk up to a criminal and politely ask them to stop. I tried that once, it actually worked. Of course, the fact that I had my foot on the man's throat might have had something to do with it.

As I approach the door, I can't help but ask myself the same question I've asked for the past five years: Does it really matter? Do my actions have any impact on the world? Or is this just an exercise in futility?

I'm not so naïve that I believe that I can stop all crime from occurring all around the world. That would be ideal, but incredibly unrealistic. I just want to know that I am doing something good; I want to know that my actions are helping people.

I haven't been all that sure lately. Now, even those I help cower in fear at the mere sight of me. They cower in fear despite the fact that all I've done for the past five years is fight crime and protect the innocent.

My constant feeling and state of loneliness has never been so prevalent in my life. Five years ago, I had the Dursleys. True, they hated me, they abused me, they even swayed the entire community to their side, but they were still my family. I still had someone who looked out for me. Better than what _they _did.

I force my anger down into the mental cage I've built for it. The Dursleys insulted me in many ways, but none hurt me more than when they reminded me of how I came to live with them. I was a freak. I was too much of a freak for an entire family and hidden community of freaks to love.

My Aunt Petunia took great pleasure in teaching me how to read at a very young age, just so she could force me to read _her_ letter whenever she needed some form of entertainment. My misery amused her to no end.

Am I really that abnormal? Am I really that much of a deviant that my efforts to help people are unwelcome?

Am I truly alone in the world?

I ask myself these questions, but I already know the answer to each of them: Yes. I am abnormal, I am a deviant, I am unwelcome, and I am alone.

I suppose that I should add that I have a tendency to be a bit self-loathing, but that would be stating the obvious, I think.

With a sigh, I twist the doorknob and push the door open, and step out into the night. I can't help but feel a bit more comfortable out here. The priest's hospitality is nice, but I just don't feel at home in this place. Perhaps that's why I've never taken him up on his offer to stay in one of his spare rooms.

No, it has nothing to do with the reputation of some of the Catholic priests. The priest is true to his vow of chastity and does not engage in that sort of frivolous behavior; he's actually quite appalled by it. He may be a sarcastic nuisance at times, but he is a man of honor. One of the few that I've encountered in my travels.

I turn away from the rectory, intending to walk away, but I come to a stop as I notice that I'm not alone. I'm not seeing things, the person before me is quite real. Even worse, I know who she is; I've seen her picture in newspapers.

She's wearing her trademark blue cloak; it's wrapped around her in a manner that hides her arms and blue dress from view. Her hood, which seems to be fashioned to look like a bird's head, is drawn over her head, casting a shadow over the uppermost part of her face.

That, alone with her violet eyes, gives her a very threatening appearance, one very fitting of her name. Yes, I know her name. She is the sorceress, the most controversial member of the Teen Titans, she is yet another hero to be cast in a dark light by the political pundits and religious leaders.

She is the one known as Raven.

**Chapter End**

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter; I did my best to give you a good read.**

**Note: Wraith's inner monologues about religion are just to show that he is detached from society, I am not using it to give voice to anti-religious sentiment. **


	4. Under the Hood

**Disclaimer: I do not own the **_**Harry Potter**_** series or DC comics, nor do I claim rights to any of their characters. **

**Seems that the last chapter was generally well received, so here we go again. **

**One note: Harry will say 'phase' instead of 'teleport' just like in last chapter. He doesn't know the difference at this point. He's a novice in terms of those powers. **

**Chapter 5: Under the Hood**

As I gaze at the cloaked woman standing before me, I can't help but think that I was incorrect when I spoke of her previously. I stated that her powers were similar to mine, just more advanced. That statement is false. Please, allow me to correct that error.

It is _my_ powers that are similar to _hers_. Yes, I'm well aware that it's just a semantics issue, but it's important to get the facts straight. She mastered them; she has used them to perform feats that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to match. This is her domain; I am merely the little fish in the pond.

Remember when I stated that I might last ten seconds in a fight with Nightwing if he were to face me seriously? The same estimate can be applied here. Even at full strength, I wouldn't stand a chance against Raven. In fact, I'm probably at even more of a disadvantage against her. She has the range and more advanced abilities, I only have some semblance of control over two of my abilities. At full power, I would lose in less than ten seconds.

But I'm not at full power. Fighting all day, using my other powers, and losing blood have exhausted me. Add in the fact that I'm without full use of my left arm, and I'm handicapped even further. At this point, she wouldn't need to expend much energy fighting me. That being said, I don't have many options; no matter how I move, my chances of winning or escaping are very slim. In fact, my chances are practically zero.

As stated previously, fighting her straight on is out. She has years of experience with her powers and I'm in no condition to use my full illusionary ability. With my injury, it's not likely that I'd be able to fight her hand to hand. Also, I have no idea how well she's trained in that area, and fighting blind in those terms is foolish. Fighting blind along with an injury is just suicide.

I can't go forward, she's standing right in front of me. Even if I feint and then flee, she'll probably use her powers to stop me. I doubt I'll even be able to take three steps before she does so.

Going left or right is out, there's nothing to use as cover. The closest building is the Church and that's locked by now. And I seriously doubt that she'll chase me around on foot; I've seen video of her flying.

My best bet is to back away slowly, walk back into the rectory, and hope that she isn't here for me. It's extremely unlikely, but that's all I have at the moment. I'm five feet away from the door; twenty feet separate Raven and I. I'll just have to move slowly and casually, I don't look suspicious. Maybe she'll just think I'm a homeless boy who was taking shelter.

As I consider my options, I can't help but notice that something isn't right. I feel a bit strange. I feel as if something is reaching out to me, calling me to her. She's twenty feet away, so she's not pulling me in physically. It's as if her power, her darkness, is calling out to mine, and mine is reaching out to hers in response. Hers is calling and mine is answering.

My darkness is betraying me!

The thought scares me. What is this? What even is this? She's not manipulating my mind; at least, I don't think she is. I can still think for myself. Something is just telling me that I should go to her. Something is drawing me to her, as if telling me that she will keep me safe.

No.

I don't know what this is, but I'm not falling for it. This is has to be some sort of trick! She must be trying to trick me into lowering my guard! Just like the police have done so many times before. Just like they tricked me with promises of trying to help me.

Just like every adult who ever said that I could come to them with my problems.

She speaks in a low, dry voice. "Please don't run." She says calmly. "I am not here to fight you."

I've heard that line many times before; I'm not falling for it again. I take a step back, turn and begin walking to the door, still looking over my shoulder at her. She hasn't moved. Good. Perhaps she's telling the truth and really isn't here to fight. I turn my gaze to the door, only to stop and quickly backpedal in shock.

She's standing in front of the door! I do a quick double take, looking over my shoulder to confirm that she's not still behind me. She isn't. She must have phased in front of me when I started turning.

She's much faster at that than I am.

"I am not here to fight you," She repeats, trying to sooth my worries. I can't help but shudder as I feel her darkness' effects on my own grow now that she's closer. Even it is trying to sooth me, it's trying to convince me that she's not lying.

I don't believe it. Her darkness is hers; of course it would try to convince me that she isn't a threat. If she willed it to do so, it would be possible.

She takes a step forward, I take two back. She sighs and speaks again. "I only wish to speak with you. I have questions; Questions only you can answer."

I glare at her in response. "I've heard that many times. Each has been a lie."

"If I wanted to fight you, I wouldn't bother talking to you," She replies, in the same even tone.

I can feel something coming from her; she's telling the truth, but she's not as calm as she's trying to appear. I sense anxiety. She's feeling anxiety towards… me. I don't understand. Why would Raven of the Teen Titans feel anything towards me? We've never met before. At least, I don't recall meeting her.

I shake myself from my thoughts and reply in kind. "I don't see why you feel the need to question me. I've not harmed any innocent civilians, despite what you may have heard, I help people. I've done nothing wrong."

"I believe you," Now, that, I haven't heard before. "But that was not one of my question. I am here for other reasons."

"Thank you for that, but I'm not quite sure what other reasons you could have for wanting to seek me out. Usually, the first question asked is whether or not the person asking can trust a little freak like me."

"You are _not_ a freak!" She snaps angrily. I take a couple more steps back. I've never seen her angry, even in news clips of her fighting villains. Raven rarely shows any visible sign of anger. Her expression softens slightly; she seems to have noticed my unease. "You are not a freak," She repeats, regaining her calm state. "You are gifted, just as I am. You are special in ways that others cannot begin to comprehend. You are indeed different, but you are most certainly not a freak!"

I'm surprised, but I don't show it. I can't show any weakness to her, I'm already at a disadvantage with my handicap; I can't let her catch me off guard with some sort of trick.

"Nice of you to say," I reply. "I guess now I can check 'freak' off of my list of things to describe myself as whenever I'm bored." For some reason, I notice her eyes widen in shock and alarm as I say that, but she quickly readjusts and resumes her stoic expression. I sense concern emitting from her. I ignore it and continue. "I suppose now I'm left with 'demon spawn', unless, of course, you mean to tell me that I'm not that either?"

"No."

I definitely wasn't expecting that. Before I can stop myself, I repeat her statement as a question. "No?"

"No," She repeats. "I am not going to say that you do not have demon parentage."

"I-I'm not quite sure I understand," I say with a slight stammer at the beginning. Damn it, she caught me off guard with that. Usually, people who try to gain my trust offer false assurances that I'm not a demon or a freak, that they don't see me as a monster. She says I'm not a freak, but won't say I'm not a demon? This is curious.

She takes another step forward. This time, I only take one step back. "What do you not understand?" She asks politely.

"You – You say it as if you know my heritage," I stutter. "Th – They aren't demons!" That was a slip up. No one else is supposed to know how much I really know.

"It's a bit difficult to explain," She says with a sigh as she reaches up and draws her hood back, allowing me to see her face clearly. For some odd reason, I am compelled to reciprocate the gesture; I draw my own hood back in return.

She remains silent for a moment, looking me straight in the eyes. She's one of the few to do so willingly; in fact, she's the only one to do so. Her expression softens and her lips curve upwards in a small smile. "Your eyes are quite beautiful."

I blink in surprise; my arms instinctively raise up to wrap themselves around my shoulders as if to hug myself, something that has become a sort of nervous tick for me. I quickly stop myself before the movement draws any significant attention. She caught me off guard again. No one has ever said anything nice about my eyes. "No one's ever told me that, " I say quietly, more to myself than to her. "Usually, they say my eyes are weird or frightening."

"They're unique, " She says with conviction. "Just like you."

There it is again. I'm not sure what to make of this. She's complimenting me; she's talking as if she knows me, as if she knows what I am. "You still haven't explained," I say quietly.

"I apologize. I did not intend to change the subject," She paused for a moment, as if considering how to word her next statement, before sighing. "As I said, it is a bit difficult to explain."

"Why?" I ask, not bothering to hide my interest. She knows something. I can sense it. She knows something about me, something that might be the key to explain everything I've gone through since being found on the Dursleys' doorstep twelve years ago. I want to know.

I _need_ to know why.

Again, she remains silent for a moment, as if she's trying to decide on how to word her statement. "Because it was difficult for me to come to terms with," She admits quietly. "Despite the fact that I have always known my – no – _our_ father's identity."

I feel numb for a moment as my brain registers what she's just implied. Our father? Our? I feel anger trying to break through and take control. I'm inclined to let it; how dare she! How _dare_ she bring _him_ into this! After those two left me with the Dursleys, after Petunia forced me to read_ her_ note! I've known about my parents for years, I've known full well that they live a lavish life in their ancestral home, I've known how they doted on their daughter while I grew up as an indentured servant to my abusive relatives!

How dare she show her face after all these years!

"_You_!" I hiss. Her eyes widen in shock and confusion, she's unsure what she's done to draw my ire. My hands clench into fists, I can feel my nails biting into my skin and drawing blood. I can feel my darkness whipping itself into a frenzy as my anger feeds it. "After all these years, after all these years you've lived a privileged life while I was forced to feel nothing but pain and loneliness!" Her shock has turned into something else, concern perhaps. She holds her right hand out in a placating gesture, almost as if reaching out to touch me on the shoulder. I ignore it and continue my rant. "After all these years I've lived in darkness, scavenging for scraps of food and clothing while protecting the innocent, you dare show your face to me, _Celeste Potter_?" I spit the name as if it's the worst curse imaginable. To me, it is.

That family has brought me nothing but pain and misery.

I glare at her, expecting her to start babbling excuses or to say something to defend her name. She doesn't. She stares back at me in confusion, thinking quietly before speaking again. "I have gone by another name in the past," She says slowly. "But I have never been called 'Celeste Potter.'"

"Don't lie to me!" I yell, completely giving into my anger. Behind her, a porch light shatters as I briefly lose control of my powers.

She winces slightly as the glass noisily falls to the ground. She begins to speak slowly. "I have no reason to lie to you, nor do I intend to withhold information from you. You have caught me by surprise with your outburst, but I assure you that I am not who you think I am." I open my mouth to retort but she gives me a rather stern look. I close my mouth and let her continue. "Raven is the name given to me by my birth mother, a woman named Arella, the only other name that I have gone by is Rachel Roth. The latter is merely an alias. As for your comment about me living 'a privileged life', I think you'll find that I understand your pain all too well."

"Just because you say that you're not Celeste Potter doesn't make it the truth! You say we have the same parents? Then you are indeed Celeste Potter, my sister and pampered child of James and Lily Potter!"

"Calm yourself and clear your mind for a moment –"

"Don't order me around like you have authority over me! To think that you have the sheer audacity to –"

Suddenly, her eyes glow a pure white; the wind whips around us in a frenzy as her powers spring to life. "Enough!" She hisses. I feel my darkness retreating inward and sending me a warning not to anger the woman before me; the darkness is almost acting as if it were a naughty child trying to shrink away from an angry parent.

Why? My darkness has never behaved this way, not even when I lived with the Dursleys. Why has my darkness chosen to be submissive now? Why do I feel compelled to listen to her? I should be running! I should turn around right now and run as fast as I can! Or I could even try rushing her and make her trip on the porch stairs and then yell loudly to try to draw the priest's attention! Damn it, I should be doing something, anything to get away from her before she inevitably betrays my trust and drags me off to a prison cell.

But I'm not running; something other than my own curiosity is compelling me to stay here; I feel compelled to say here _with her_.

What is this?

Raven closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to calm her own temper. When she opens her eyes again, they have returned to their normal color. I can't help but notice that those amethyst eyes are, without a shadow of a doubt, the most beautiful colored eyes I've ever seen. In the few news articles I've been able to read from papers I've dug from bins, her eyes are typically described as cold, calculating and devoid of human emotion.

They seem inviting to me; they seem as if they guard what their owner feels, but still show that she holds a deep understanding and concern for the world around her. Guarded, but observant and secretly caring; perhaps we do have more in common than just our dark powers and ambiguous origins.

After a moment of silence, she begins speaking again. "I'm sorry that I lost my temper with you, but I do need you to attempt to remain calm, despite how upsetting the topic of conversation is for you."

I can't help but feel the slightest bit of embarrassment for my outburst, but nod nonetheless. "I suppose that is fair. If what you say is true, then my previous bout of anger was misdirected. For that, I apologize as well."

She waves off my apology and seems to consider something for a moment. "It just dawned on me that I've been rather rude during the course of our conversation," I do my very best to resist the urge to point out that the manner with which she _started_ the conversation could be considered rude, but I keep my mouth shut. She narrows her eyes at me and gives me a stern look, as if she knows exactly what I'm thinking. She couldn't know that, could she? Whatever the case may be, she continues undeterred. "I've simply been referring to you as 'you' and have yet to actually ask your name."

That's what she calls rude? I snort derisively; that's actually polite compared to what I'm used to. "It doesn't really matter," I say with a slight shrug. "I've used many names in the past few years, so, you could really just pick whichever you think suits me best from that list, if you must call me anything."

"Is that so?" She asks, as if she's prodding me to make a choice for myself. "You aren't particularly attached to any of those names? You don't have one that you prefer over the others?"

"None in particular, really. I've gone by James Potter, Lee Evans, Sirius Black and a host of others. Frankly, you could just pick whichever you think suits me best. I won't complain."

"Any I like, you say?" She asks, raising a well-trimmed eyebrow. "Any one I think suits you best?"

I shrug again. "It's of no concern to me, I've got a sizable list to choose from."

"Indeed you do," Raven replies. "I've seen it for myself, but I don't think those names suit you at all. Well, perhaps 'Wraith' does considering your uncanny ability to avoid capture and leave such an impression on your victims."

"Then you may call me Wraith, if you so please."

"No, I don't think that name will do either," She replies with a shake of her head. "I think the name 'Harry' suits you best. In fact, I think the name 'Harry Potter' suits you just perfectly, wouldn't you agree?"

I feel my breath catch in my throat, I feel as if my insides have turned to ice. She knows! How does she know? "What – What did you call me?" I stammer.

"I called you by your name, Harry," She replies as if she were talking about the weather. "I had a theory as to your identity, but your little tantrum about your sister – who you identified as 'Celeste Potter' – along with the very slightest surge of anger I felt from you when you gave me the option of calling you 'James Potter' gave me all the information I needed to confirm my belief."

I feel the world around me spinning, my breath comes out in short, ragged gasps. "I… I haven't gone by that name in… in a very long time." I manage to say in between breaths. My hands begin shaking as the memories of my past resurface all at once; I lift my arms up as if to wrap myself in a hug once again, but I manage to repress the urge. "I haven't… I don't like… I…"

"Calm down," She orders softly; this time, she doesn't step forward after me. She lets me have my space as my carefully crafted, emotionless mask crumbles. "Close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, Harry. I'm not here to harm you or use what little knowledge of your past that I have against you." Easier said than done; she's not the one dealing with memories of a rather painful past. She seems to catch on to my doubts and speaks again. "I'll wait as long as needed, but you need to calm down before you lose control of your powers again. We will continue this conversation when you feel comfortable."

"Why?" I demand, ignoring her orders for me to calm myself. "Why are you doing this? Why are you even here if you don't think I'm a threat or anything? Why are you bringing up a past I thought I'd escaped five years ago?"

"I will explain everything in due time, but I need you to –"

"I don't bloody care what you need!" I snap angrily, my emotionless façade has long since been discarded. "I don't bloody care if you want me to calm down! Why are you doing this to me? Tell me why, damn it!"

She stood silently for a moment, her expression completely blank. I can't read her with my empathy now, she's masked her own emotions too well; evidently, she has more experience in that area than I do. "The Teen Titans are trying to determine whether or not you are a threat to innocent lives," She answers quietly, almost in a whisper. "We weren't sure of your motives or long-term goals, so we decided to find you and learn for ourselves."

"So that's it, then?" I demand through gritted teeth. "This whole conversation meant nothing to you, didn't it? You played with my emotions in an attempt to stall me long enough for your allies to arrive and interrogate me –"

Once again, she narrows her eyes at me. "Do not put words in my mouth!" She hisses. "If I wanted to have you dragged back to the Cave to be interrogated, I wouldn't have bothered to start a conversation with you!"

I feel my darkness sending yet another warning to me; this time, I ignore it.

"Then come out and bloody tell me why! All you've done is dangle your knowledge of my past in front of me as if it were a carrot, and baited me into chasing after you! If you have something to say, then end this game of twenty questions and say it!"

Raven drew in a sharp breath; her expression showed irritation for merely an instant, but it was more than enough for me to realize that my outburst had angered her. Once again, my darkness called out a warning to me, this one more urgent than before; it's telling me not to push my luck any further, that she, the one that has mastered her abilities, has granted me several pardons with respect to my emotional outbursts and the fact that she is attempting to speak civilly with me.

I ignore it once again. She knows something about me, something I've been asking myself all my life. She knows what I am, why I'm so different from everyone.

"You want to know the truth so badly?" She asks quietly, barely above a whisper. "Very well. I was hoping to take the time to explain everything, to break the truth to you easily, but if you're so sure that you're ready to hear what I have to say, then I won't delay any further. The Teen Titans are investigating in order to determine whether or not you are a threat. I, however, am here on personal business: a theory of mine that has just been proven. This theory involves the truth you so desire to hear. The truth of the matter is that there is a reason that you are so very different from those around you, there is a reason you feel so comfortable in the darkness and are so criticizing of certain aspects of human interaction. There is a reason that you are capable of manipulating fear and wielding the darkness, both around you and within the depths of your own soul, as a weapon and a shield."

"What is it?" I ask almost pleadingly. "Tell me!"

She pauses for a moment, before sighing and continuing her speech. "There is a reason that you felt something within you stirring the moment we laid eyes on one another, the same reason that you and I are so very similar to one another."

I take a moment to let everything register, but, throughout her speech, one thing stood out to me more than anything else. She _knew_ that I felt something reaching out. "It is you!" I whisper as the horrifying realization hits me. "You're using my darkness to influence me! You're the reason I feel it reaching out!"

"Not quite," She replies with a shake of her head. "While I am partially the reason that your powers are stirring, I am not influencing you. In fact, it's not I who is reaching out to you: we _both_ are. Our powers have been calling to one another instinctively since the very moment we met. This is a not a result of one of us manipulating the other, it is a sign of what we are and who we are to one another. We do indeed share the same father, Harry, but his name is not James Potter; no matter how much I wish to tell you that he sired the two of us and abandoned us, I cannot. No matter how much better for not only us, but the world, that would be, it is nothing but a lie. It was only a theory when I began my search for you tonight, but our powers calling out to us have confirmed it for me: you and I are brother and sister. You and I share the same father, the demon known as Trigon, the destroyer of worlds." She pauses for a moment, before looking directly into my eyes. She begins walking towards me slowly, as if trying to show that she's not attacking.

I feel numb. I don't know what to think! My body won't move at all! "Then, it's true," I whisper. "Everything that has been said about me is true. I – I am a monster! I am a hell spawn!"

"No!" She hisses, closing the distance between us in an instant. I move to step back from her, but she reaches out and places her hands on my shoulders, causing a shot of pain to run down my left arm. She repositions her right hand, obviously noticing my discomfort, and kneels down before me, leaning in until our noses are nearly touching. "You are not a monster!" She insists. "A monster would not bother defending the weak or innocent, a monster would show no compassion to anyone, a monster does not think rationally! You do! Despite the emotionally devoid mask you've created for yourself, you do care for others. I felt it within you the moment I looked at you, just as you could feel that I meant you no harm!"

"Why?" She blinks in surprise, unsure of what I'm asking. "Why are you saying this to me?" I ask weakly, averting my eyes. "Why are you going so far to convince me that I'm not a monster after you've just told me that I'm a demon?"

Without hesitation, Raven moves her hands to cup my cheeks and raise my head so that I'm looking her in the eyes again. "Because you're my brother," She answers softly. "Because I want for us to be brother and sister as we should have been since the day you were born."

For the first time in years, I feel something, something that isn't anger. I feel multiple emotions actually. I feel happy. For the first time in my life, I feel genuinely happy. Someone cares about me. Someone cares about _me_! I've never experienced this. I don't know how to respond to this revelation. Gratitude? Joy? The mere thought feels so foreign to me that I don't know what to do. But there is something nagging me, a little voice in the back of my mind, telling me that I've been here before.

In a rush, everything comes back to me; every time a teacher told me to come to her if I was bullied, only to take their side because they were "good boys and girls", every time Aunt Petunia offered me a bowl of soup, only to knock it from my hands before I could take a single sip and order me to clean up the mess I'd made, every time a police officer promised to help me, right before using a stun gun on me.

It was all a lie.

Every time someone offered me help was a lie. The only exceptions were the family from Toronto and the priest; the family was genuinely grateful, perhaps a bit blinded by their sense of gratitude to see me for what I am, and the priest felt that all life was precious; everyone deserved a chance to live happily.

Everything else was a lie. Every time I tried to open up to somebody, it ended with me in pain. Any other time someone claimed to love me, it was a lie. People who say they care just want to hurt me.

But I'm torn. I don't know what to do! I feel overjoyed that someone would care! I can feel her emotions with my empathy! But I'm afraid. I don't want to be hurt again! I've wanted to be loved for so long, but I'm afraid that it will be nothing more than a lie! Can you blame me? It's all I've ever known. I want it so badly; I want to be loved like any other child in this world. But I can't let go of my past; I can't forget everything else.

I try to pull away, but her grip is strong. "Let me go!" I say shakily. "Get away from me!"

"Harry! Listen to me," She says soothingly. "Calm down, don't be afraid! I'm not going to hurt you!"

"You're lying! It's all a lie! I've heard it before!" I throw my arms up and knock her hands away from me and step back again, trying frantically to get away from her. Raven is too quick though; she quickly grabs my wrists, preventing my escape. She won't let me leave. This is it! This is just like every other time! She tore down my walls and now she's going to try to break me completely!

She releases her hold on my left wrist, I'm not sure whether or not she did so due to my earlier show of pain when she touched my shoulder, and places her right hand on my cheek again. Her hand seems soft, her touch almost soothing, but not soothing enough. I can't regain my fragile control over my emotions.

I close my eyes tightly, as if ridding myself of the sight of her face will cure all my problems. If I don't see her, she doesn't have power over me. That's right. That's perfect. I'll just close my eyes and pretend it's all a bad dream. That's all this is. A bad dream; a horrible nightmare.

_My_ nightmare.

I feel her place her left hand on my right cheek comfortingly, she speaks to me in a soft voice. "Look at me, Harry. Open you eyes and look." I can hear the concern in her voice, but there's something else. It's almost as if she's pleading for me to look. It's as if she's pleading with me to look at her. Against my better judgment, against every single one of my emotions that are screaming for me to run before I'm hurt again, I open my eyes and look back at her, my vision slightly blurred by something. Some sort of moisture with a slight burning sensation.

Tears. My vision is blurred by _tears_. I haven't cried in so long, I've almost forgotten how it feels when tears begin to build up. I've forgotten the slight burning sensation the salt gives off, how my throat begins to tighten and breathing seems to be impossible.

Raven then did something that took me completely by surprise: She undid the clasp on her cloak and wrapped me in it, as one would wrap a small child in a blanket. I stand completely still, utterly shocked at the gesture. As I stand, staring dumbly back at her, Raven took a corner of her cloak and began gently wiping my eyes, drying my tears.

An unfamiliar feeling of warmth spread through my chest. What is this? Is this that feeling of warmth I've heard of? Is this the feeling I've missed for my entire life? It must be.

"I'm not lying," She says softly, looking straight into my eyes. She's the only person who has ever willingly and deliberately looked into them. "I meant every word of it. I care about you, Harry. The fact that I've only known of your existence a few scant hours saddens me. It upsets me that my little brother, my flesh and blood, has wandered this world alone unbeknownst to me upsets me dearly. I want to be a part of your life, I want to be your sister just as I should have been since the day you were brought into this world."

Her words are comforting. My inner darkness swells within me and amplifies that feeling of warmth. This is so foreign to me, I don't understand. She seems so insistent with her desires. "Why?" I ask shakily. "Why do you care? You don't even know me. You've _never_ known me! Why are you so set on helping me?"

For a moment, Raven stares back at me in silence. That passing moment seems to last forever, before she wraps her arms around me. I gasp in surprise; she's hugging me! She's _hugging_ me! The warmth seems to spread throughout my body! I feel… I feel happy! After years of wondering if I could ever feel happiness or love, I can feel it for the first time!

She draws closer to me, leaning forward until our noses are almost touching. I can feel her breath tickling my face; I can almost see my own reflection in her eyes.

"Because you're my brother," She whispers. "Because despite the fact that I've known you for only a few scant hours, you're more precious to me than anything else in this world."

As the words register with my mind, I feel my heartbeat racing as if I've been running for an hour. With trepidation, with the slightest bit of fear, I slowly reciprocate the gesture; I slowly wrap my arms around her waist, almost afraid that she will reject me. She instead tightens her hold on me, moving so that her head is resting on my shoulder. She approves.

I bury my face in her shoulder, reveling in her warmth and the softness of her skin. She cares! She does care! She's my sister! I have a sister! Someone loves me!

Somebody actually loves _me_! Harry the Freak! The Wraith! The Living Nightmare! The Hellspawn! That Which Shouldn't Have Been Born!

"Harry," Raven whispered softly, not breaking the hug. "Would you like to come home? Would you like to come home with me?"

I nod into her shoulder; I don't think I could speak even if I tried. I doubt I could manage anything other than something equivalent to some sort of pathetic, strangled squeaking sound. These feelings, these _emotions_ are so confusing to me, they're pulling me in so many different directions on how to handle this situation. But there is one thought that supersedes all else, one thing that is true no matter which emotion I listen to.

I don't want to let go!

If I let go, she might leave me! If I let go, I may never get a chance at having some semblance of a family again!

As if knowing exactly what I was thinking (actually, that is completely possible), she holds me tighter and says, "I won't let go. I promise." As she finishes speaking, the familiar feeling of the darkness creeping up my legs, that feeling of comfort within the darkness has returned. But I'm not the one doing this, she is. Raven is using the darkness to take us home.

Sister is taking me home!

The cloak of shadows wraps around us and begins to take the shape of a giant, black raven. The shadowy bird lifts us into the air, causing me to nearly stumble back in surprise if not for sister's hold on me. True to her word, she hadn't let me go, she actually tightened her grip on me, silently assuring me that she wouldn't let me fall.

Sister won't let me fall. She'll never let me fall.

Never.

**LINE BREAK**

As I feel us phasing through the floor, I can't help but look around and take in the sight of the room sister has brought me to. The walls are lined with bookshelves, nearly crammed full of books, each of them appears to be old, but still in good condition. The rest of the room, however, seems plain by comparison.

The carpet is a deep blue, the same as sister's cloak, and seems to have been cleaned recently. In the corner, a well-polished, wooden dresser stands near some sort of simple bed; I believe this type of bed is called a futon. On the opposite wall, a rather large, wooden desk stands alone, bare save for a few stacks of paper, a lone, hand held mirror, and a small lamp.

Based on these observations, I would guess that the occupant of this particular room is more interested in reading and pursuing knowledge than the décor of their surrounding environment or personal belongings. However, I notice that I missed something.

There are a few drawings hanging above the desk, symbols based in magic or demonic rituals. I'm not quite sure what most of them are called, but there is one that I do recognize, the one hanging in the very middle of the line.

A pentagram. The image of the five-sided star within a circle, set on a black background hangs above the desk. An interesting choice of decor, certainly not something one expects to see everyday. Pentagrams and other such symbols are generally frowned upon in modern Western society as associated with the Satanist Cult or Wiccans.

While I do note the fact that the presence of these symbols is a rare sight, I am not implying that this is unnerving to me. If anything, I find its presence reassuring; I welcome it. Its presence shows me that the occupant of this particular room as at least some inclination to things that are considered taboo in society, something I am quite familiar with.

Suddenly, the realization hits me: pentagrams are usually associated with witchcraft and sorcery, there's only one member of the Titans who utilizes those powers, and sister did ask if I wanted to come home with her. She implied that she was bringing me to where she lived. She didn't just bring me to any room. She literally brought me home.

This is _sister's_ room.

That feeling of warmth is back again, that feeling that was once foreign to me has reappeared multiple times since our initial encounter. Raven, my _sister_, didn't let me go when she said she wouldn't _and_ she brought me to her room. She brought me home.

I'm… I'm home. For the first time in my life, I'm home.

As I allow myself to drop the emotional walls with which I've surrounded myself, as I let myself become immersed in this warm, happy feeling, I notice something out of the corner of my eye. I missed something during my initial survey of sister's room. In a darkened corner of the room, there is a single, solid oak door.

I do admit that it would normally be a bit too much to focus so much attention on what appears to be nothing more than a simple door in my sister's room, for all I know it's her closet or something. I understand that, but I can't help but feel something different. I feel sister's darkness emitting from that room, as if she's used her power there in large quantities; it feels as if it's been in use quite recently, actually.

"-ry? Harry? Harry!" Sister's voice brings my wandering mind back to reality, I give myself a quick shake of the head and turn my gaze back towards sister, back into her eyes. "Are you alright?" She asks, concern evident in her voice. "You seem lost in your thoughts."

"Nothing," I respond quietly, shaking my head negatively. "Just looking around."

I notice something flash across her eyes as I say this; nervousness, it seems. "Do you not find it agreeable here?" She asks with a bit of trepidation. "Is there something that makes you uneasy?"

"I like it!" I answer quickly, almost stumbling over the words as I say them. I don't want her to think that I'm not grateful, lest she decide she doesn't want me here because of a perceived lack of gratitude. "It's really nice!"

"You're sure? Most people find my room unsettling, if you want to go somewhere else, I understand completely –"

I felt a rush of panic and cried out. "No!" Both of us remain silent for a moment, sister's eyes widen in surprise at my outburst; she probably wasn't expecting such a response. I feel my face heat up as a feeling of embarrassment sets in. "I don't want to leave," I mutter, nervously fidgeting and fiddling with the frayed edges of my jacket. "I want to stay here!"

"Okay, you don't have to leave! I'm sorry for suggesting it!" She says soothingly, placing her hands on my shoulders in an attempt to comfort me. I hiss in pain when one of her fingers brushes against my wound; she redirects her gaze to my shoulder and narrows her eyes at the sight of bloodstain. "You're injured," She says in her typical monotone, but I can sense a bit of concern from her.

For some inexplicable reason, I feel a bit sheepish that she noticed. Well, that she noticed _again_. "It was an accident," I mumble. "The priest stitched me up back at the rectory. He said that it wouldn't take too long to heal if I didn't put too much strain on it."

Sister's gaze didn't waver; her focus remained on the bloody stain on my jacket sleeve. "Show me," she ordered.

I blink in surprise. What? "Excuse me?" I ask.

"Take off your jacket and show me," She says again.

"The priest stitched me up properly, he's a former field medic," I inform her. "There is no need for you to worry yourself over something so trivial."

She turns abruptly and gives me a stern look. "When it comes to you, I will worry as much as I deem it necessary," She replies in clipped tones. "I have not inspected the condition of your wound, nor have I had the chance to inspect the work this priest you mentioned has done. For all I know, he may have failed to give you proper first aid. I will not take that chance. Take off your jacket, _now_."

Her tone suggests that this isn't up for further discussion.

Reluctantly, I release her cloak from my grasp, allowing it to fall to the ground and pool around me, I reach up and unzip my hoodie, giving it a quick jerk as the zipper reaches the bottom so that it separates out. I gingerly begin attempting to work the left jacket sleeve off, wincing in pain each time I pull on it or accidentally shift my left arm. This is much more painful than I anticipated.

To my surprise, sister lays her hand upon mine, silently telling me to stop struggling lest I aggravate my injury any further. Slowly, she draws the left side of the jacket over my shoulder, taking care not to pull too hard and aggravate my injury. Sister pulls my arm through the sleeve and then pushes my shirt sleeve up to reveal my injured shoulder, inhaling sharply as she sees the stitched wound.

I don't need empathy to tell that she's less than pleased.

"It was an accident," I repeat weakly, hoping that her anger will subside.

Her reproachful gaze remains. "Accident or not, you should not hide an injury such as this from me, Harry," She chides.

"As I stated before, the priest stitched me up earlier, I didn't want to inconvenience you more than I already –"

"You haven't inconvenienced me," She cuts me off sharply. "You are _not_ an inconvenience to me in any way, I don't ever want to hear you hint that you are again. You are my brother and I am your sister, it is natural for one sibling to be concerned for the other in these circumstances. This is generally true for all family members… despite your previous situation." My faux composed expression falls, bearing my shock for her to see. "During our briefing prior to our search for you, Nightwing provided us with several newspaper articles detailing some of your previous exploits, along with two articles about your final days in England."

I can't help but hang my head in a mixture of shame and despair. She knows. She knows about my past. And what's worse: every one of the Titans knows as well. I couldn't care less that they've read the stories about me from across North America, those stories are a part of the life I chose to live. A solitary life dedicated to protecting the innocent and combating villains.

But the portion from England, the portion from when I lived with the Dursleys, especially _that_ particular day, that was a life I tried my very best to leave behind. A life I _wished_ I could say was just a horrible, horrible nightmare.

And she knows about it!

"There's no need to worry," She assures me, placing a hand on my cheek. "I have no intent of using what little knowledge of your past I possess against you. Nor do we have to speak of it until you are comfortable doing so."

There it is again; that idea that she's not going to use her knowledge of what or who I am to hurt me. It's a foreign concept to me. "Why?"

She sighs and stands up, motioning for me to follow her over to the futon in the corner. "If your question is why I will not be using this information against you, my answer is the same as when you asked why I care for you: we are siblings. You are more valuable to me than some trinket or anything of monetary value." She pauses for a moment, and gestures for me to sit. I comply as she begins speaking again. "If your question is why I will not pressure you into discussing your past with me at this time, it's because I think it to be unfair to force you to discuss something that obviously makes you uncomfortable before you feel ready."

"Why do you think it's unfair?" I ask as she sits down on my left side. "My past is usually the first thing people demand that I speak about."

"Two reasons," She answers, lightly placing her hands on my wound and muttering something in another language. I open my mouth to ask that she elaborate, only to gasp in shock as I notice her eyes begin to glow pure white and an oddly cold aura to settle over my wound. I've never felt anything like this before if I had to liken it to anything, it would be a feeling similar to that of when I would attempt to blow cool air onto a cut when I was younger.

The feeling is similar in nature, but on a much deeper level. It's that same feeling as when her powers, her darkness, was reaching out to me; but this time, it's not calling to me, this time it's reaching out and touching me. Her darkness pours out of her and touches my wound, caressing the torn skin and muscle. I can feel something deeper, I can feel the intent; Her darkness is taking the pain away and mending the damaged muscles and torn flesh. I can feel the muscles and skin sewing back together, returning to its previously undamaged form. It's healing me; _she_ is healing me.

The only other person to willingly offer me medical attention (with knowledge of who I am) was the priest. But Raven is going out of her way to heal me and make sure that she doesn't act in a threatening manner.

Is our relationship that important to her? Am _I_ that important to her? Why? As she said before, she's only known of my existence a few scant hours; we've only known each other personally for thirty minutes at most. How does our brief relationship, if you can even call it that, warrant such interest and concern in my wellbeing?

And why do I enjoy it so much? After years of isolation, after years of doing everything in my power to avoid any semblance of emotional connection with another individual, I find myself welcoming this interaction. I find myself wanting, no, _needing_ this interaction with her.

Normally, I don't like being touched. I do everything to avoid contact unless I'm beating some thug into the ground. But here, I like it. Her hands feel so warm and soft against my skin, unlike anything I've ever experienced. I find myself _leaning into_ her touch as she puts the finishing touches on healing my wound. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a look of surprise on her face.

It's not the sort of surprise where you can almost tell that the phrase "What on Earth do you think you're doing?" is running through the person's mind. It's a more pleasant surprise type of thing. It seems as if she was hoping for this sort of interaction with me, but wasn't sure how to react or even if something like this would happen.

It almost seems as though she's just as new to this as I am.

Much to my disappointment, she pulls away to examine her work, nodding to herself in satisfaction after a moment. I lift my arm to see for myself, sure enough, it's gone. The wound, the pain, even the stitches are gone. It's as if I was never injured at all!

And sister did that with her darkness, her touch. Contact with her took the pain away and gave me that warm feeling inside, that feeling I've both feared and desired more than anything in this world for the my entire life. It made me feel, dare I even think it lest _that_ emotion start bouncing around in my head spouting nonsense about frolicking through the fields (or something like that, I tend to smother _him_ just as quickly as I smother my anger), happy. Yes, I, Harry "the Wraith" Potter, feel happy.

I, Harry "the Wraith" Potter, find myself wanting human contact… Well, I should say _half_-human contact, really. Nevertheless, I want it.

The sound of her voice brings me back to reality. "As I was saying, the first reason is that I could sense your panicked state through my empathy and could see the shock on your face whenever I hinted that I knew something about you. This leads me to believe that you aren't comfortable with certain aspects of your early life." I have to admit, she's hit the mark on that one. "This ties into my second reason. While my early years may not have been quite as physically painful as yours, I too experienced isolation and buried my more positive emotions deep within in order to prevent my powers from running wild."

"The same as me," I mutter in shock.

"Yes," She says with a nod. "Our lives started out very differently, but the two of us coped with our traumas and proceeded almost exactly the same. We both made the conscious choice to help people despite what they might say about us. Despite how horrible the world had been to us, we made the choice to protect instead of giving into our darker urges. What reasoning drove you to choose this path, I do not know, nor will I ask at this time. All I am concerned with is that you are here and your injury has been taken care of. I specifically brought you to my room in order to make sure that you would be safe."

The warm feeling is back again, hearing someone admit that they care about me and then following through with that claim goes against all of my past experiences. If not for my empathy telling me that her feelings are genuine, I wouldn't know what to think, I _still_ don't fully understand how I'm supposed to respond. All I know is what she's told me: We are family. Three words. Those three words are my entire world right now.

Despite the fact that she's said it multiple times, I have to ask again. I have to hear her say it again. "Tell me why," I beg, looking into her eyes. "Say it again. Tell me why I matter to you. Tell me why I matter at all."

Sister's eyes soften, her lips curve upward into a small smile. For the second time, she pulls me into an embrace, which I return almost immediately. "Because you're my brother," She replies with conviction.

I wrap my arms tighter, a gesture she reciprocates. "Say it again."

"You're my brother, Harry," she replies, without a hint of exasperation. If anything, it sounds as if she enjoys saying it as much as I do hearing it.

"Say it again."

"You're my brother, Harry."

"Say it again."

"You're my brother, Harry."

"Say it again."

"You're my brother, Harry."

**Chapter End**

**I'm going to make a major note here: Harry's desire for more contact with Raven is NOT a hint of a future incestuous relationship. He just found out that he has a sister that loves him. He craves that connection with her just as she wants to have a chance to actually have a brother/sister relationship with him.**

**Review and let me know what you liked or didn't like.**


	5. The Titans' Lair

**Disclaimer: I do not own the **_**Harry Potter**_** series or DC comics, nor do I claim rights to any of their characters. **

**Chapter 5: The Titans' Lair**

I opened my eyes, vision slightly blurry as they adjusted to the light. I must've fallen asleep at some point, I'm not quite sure when. I don't even remember lying down after the priest finished stitching me up.

Ah, the priest. He must've managed to convince me to stay the night in the rectory. That's it. Everything that occurred afterward was just a dream. Meeting Raven and finding out that she was my sister, that someone loved me, was nothing more than a dream.

Oh, well. It's a nice thought, nothing more. At least it was a happy dream this time.

I heave a sigh and decide that it's time to get up, thank the priest for his hospitality, offer to help out around the church and rectory as repayment, which he will refuse, and then leave. It's become out little routine. Might as well stick to it; perhaps I'll help out anyways, despite his protests, to show him that I really do appreciate what he's done for me. Yes, that does sound like a good idea.

All thoughts are brought to a screeching halt as I realize that I'm being touched, no, I'm being _held_! Someone snuck up on me in my sleep and is holding me in place. I spring up and jump back, preparing myself to subdue my unknown assailant and make my escape!

Instead, I end up tangled in what appears to be a discarded, blue cloak and fall flat on my backside.

The sound of my fall rouses my assailant from her sleep; her head snaps up, eyes wide, searching the room for signs of an attack. She tightens her hold on my former position, gasping in shock as she realizes that I'm no longer there. She looks up, locking eyes with me, looking immediately relieved. "Harry," She greets me with a small smile and a sigh of relief. "Don't startle me like that!"

"Where am I?" I demand, not bothering to exchange pleasantries. "Who are you? Why do you know my name?" With each question I ask, I notice her smile slowly dropping into a frown, as if each question cuts into her.

She moves off the bed to kneel down next to me, gripping my shoulders in her hands and looking deeply into my eyes. "Harry, it's me, it's Raven! Your sister, remember? I brought you home last night."

"Home?" I ask, testing the unfamiliar word.

"Yes, home," She replies with a nod.

"We're in your home?"

"_Our_ home, Harry," She says insistently, putting added stress on the word 'our'. "I'm your sister; my home is your home."

"Sister?" I ask; racking my brain to try to remember the events she speaks of. Suddenly, it clicks. "Raven?" She smiles and nods again. I feel my cheeks heat up in embarrassment. How could I forget something like that? "I – I'm sorry, sister," I stammer. "I'm not used to waking up in a bed, much less being held by somebody."

"I understand, your apology is unnecessary," She says, pulling me into a hug. After a moment, she pulls back and regards me for a moment, raising a single brow. "However, please do try to avoid making a habit of leaping out of bed like that. You might end up hurting yourself again."

If possible, my cheeks heat up even more. This was definitely _not_ my best and brightest moment. "Duly noted." That's just about the only thing I could think to say at this point. It's a bit difficult to respond after one has tripped over a bloody cloak in front of his older sister.

She releases me from her hug and stands up. "Wonderful. Now, I'm going to say that it's most likely safe to assume that you're hungry, so let me get changed and we'll make our way to the dining hall." As she finished, sister turned toward the wall and pressed her hand against an access panel that I hadn't noticed last night. To my immense surprise, a portion of the wall separated and slid to the side, revealing an entire closet of blue dresses, cloaks, elbow length gloves and boots, all of it just like what she was currently wearing.

"Sister," I call, bending down to pick up the cloak she'd leant me last night, the very thing that I'd tripped over just a moment ago. "What about this cloak? Where should I put it?"

She turned to look over her shoulder, simultaneously slipping a new, clean dress over her head. "You can hold onto it for now, if you like, but eventually it will need to be washed," She pauses for a moment and glances at my clothes. "Speaking of which, your clothes desperately need to be washed… on second thought, they look much too small for you… and much too dirty to be worn for much longer."

"Yes, I do seem to have outgrown them. I suppose I'll have to search through the trash for something more –"

"You are _not_ searching through garbage for clothes anymore. I will take you to a clothing store later, perhaps along with one of my teammates in order to be sure that we find you something suitable for a boy your age."

"Sister, I appreciate the offer, but –"

"I'm not offering assistance, I'm ordering you to accept it."

I open my mouth to continue arguing, but she silences me with a look. I can't help but sigh. "I'm not going to win any of these arguments with you, am I?"

"You catch on quickly," She replies with a smirk, as she throws her cloak around her shoulders and fastens the clasp, an action I imitate with the one she's leant me for the time being. "Though it may be a foreign concept to you, I do genuinely wish to help and offer you a good life here, Harry. In order for that to happen, you have to allow me to do so, you have to let me in to your life, just as I've chosen to let you into mine. That doesn't necessarily mean that I expect you to tell me your deepest, darkest secrets and pour your soul out to me after only knowing me for a short while, but I want you to understand that it does mean that I am willing to listen when you do feel ready to speak to me about your problems, past or present."

"That… may be difficult for me."

"Understandable. It took me a while to trust my teammates enough to open up to them in any way, I expect that you'll need time as well."

I blink in surprise, taking a moment to process that bit. "You're being more logical than anyone else who's had this opportunity."

"I tend to favor logic over allowing my emotions to dictate my actions, but there are some occasions in which I do let emotions take charge. By the way," She says, turning around to face me fully. "You smell terrible and are covered in more dirt and grime than a miner, when was the last time you bathed?"

"That depends, what day is today?"

"Wednesday," She answers, raising a single brow. I can tell that wasn't the answer she wanted to hear.

I have a feeling that _this_ isn't going to make it any better. "Three weeks."

"_Three weeks_?" She blanches, before quickly composing herself and grabbing me by the wrist. "Follow me, before I take you anywhere, you desperately need to wash yourself… twice."

"I won't bother trying to argue that point," I mutter as I take a glance at my reflection in the small, hand mirror on her desk. "I suppose I am rather dirty."

"Garfield would consider you dirty, and he is most definitely _not_ someone I'd refer to as a practitioner of good hygiene."

"I see your point. So, am I supposed to find a stream or a pond or…"

"Of course not!" She snaps, looking almost angry at the very idea. Her darkness seems to tower over me as anger rages.

I stumble back and bring my hands in front of my face for protection. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!" For the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm afraid. I'm afraid to fight back.

Almost instantly, her expression changes to one of dismay. I can literally feel her anxiety and regret radiating off of her; that ice-cold feeling of realizing that she's done something wrong washes over me, causing me to shudder involuntarily. "Harry," she whispers nervously, taking a step towards me, reaching out with a shaking hand. I flinch back in fear as her hands make contact with my shoulder, slowly pulling me into a hug. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not angry at you, I just… You don't have to leave and go find somewhere else to bathe yourself. You're more than welcome to shower here."

"Oh… o – of course. This is going to take some getting used to."

"Hopefully sooner than later," Sister replied with a small smile as we stepped out of her room and into the hall. "Go shower, I'll see if I can find some old clothes that would be close to your size. They should be able to hold you over until we find time to take you to a clothing store."

"Two questions," I begin. "How do you know if your friend kept his old clothing and didn't you just say that he was unhygienic?"

"In reverse order, yes he is somewhat unhygienic, but he does wash his clothes thoroughly. Garfield is also notorious pack rat, he rarely ever throws things away."

"And you think he'll allow me to borrow his clothes?"

"Garfield is a nice person. He can be rather annoying at times with his bad jokes, horribly timed pranks and other antics, but he is a genuinely good person and friend. He's one of the few people I would trust with my life. And here we are." She says, stopping in front of a door and pressing yet another panel on the wall. The door slid open to reveal a large washroom, complete with several shower stalls and sinks, and kept in pristine condition. "Each level of the Cave, our base of operations, has a pair of washrooms, one for men and one for women. I am currently the only occupant of this level, so this washroom is rarely used. Each stall is equipped with a laundry chute for your dirty clothing, a fresh towel, liquid soap, shampoo, et cetera. Normally, I would simply tell you to toss your clothes into the laundry chute to be cleaned, but yours have passed the point of ever being clean again, so just put them in a pile and I will dispose of them later. As stated, I will find you some clean clothing."

"And what of your cloak?"

"There should be a hanger mounted on the side of the wall in whichever stall you go into, just put it up there."

"And… and what of my jacket?"

"What of it?" She asked, raising both eyebrows in confusion. "Do you not wish to dispose of it?"

"No," I mutter, playing with the frayed edges again. "I've grown rather attached to it. It would be a shame to discard it after so long."

She nodded once. "I understand. Send it down the laundry chute, then. Unfortunately, you seem to have outgrown that as well, but I suppose we could always clean it and hang it up as a keepsake."

"Thank you, sister, it means a lot to me."

"You're welcome," She replied, pulling me into another hug. After a moment she pulled back and wrinkled her nose. "Now, kindly wash yourself, it would mean quite a lot to my sense of smell."

"Yes, sister," I mutter, once again feeling my cheeks heat up as I enter the washroom. As I heard the door close behind me, I took a moment to look around one of the shower stalls. It was almost maddeningly clean! Seriously, whoever maintained this place must have some sort of obsessive compulsive cleaning disorder.

I mean, really, there's clean and then there's whatever _this_ is. Sterile, that's the word I'm looking for. This is freaking _sterile_. This is hospital room sterile.

This is a level of cleanliness that's just unnatural, and coming from someone who just recently found out that he is the half-demon son of a world-destroying monster, that's saying something.

I carefully fold my Maple Leafs hoodie up and study the square hole in the wall with a sign reading "Laundry Chute" mounted above it. I peer down it, trying to see exactly where I would be sending my beloved hoodie if I actually went through with putting it in.

It's too dark to see. I look at the hoodie in my hand then back to the laundry chute. Should I trust it? I mean, this is my most prized possession, should I really just throw it down into this mysterious, dark abyss?

Sister did say that the laundry chute is used for dirty clothes though, so perhaps I should just trust her. She made it sound like she uses it often; I'm just being paranoid now. I suppose I could believe her, she hasn't betrayed my trust yet. She could've easily moved me while I slept and had me cuffed to a chair and interrogated the moment I awoke, but she didn't. She kept her word then, so I'll trust her now.

Reluctantly, I drop my hoodie down the laundry chute, marveling as it vanishes from sight in nearly an instant. I certainly hope I haven't just thrown it into some sort of incinerator or trash compactor; it would take me forever to find another hoodie like that, let alone be able to actually afford it! I shrug my shoulders and turn the knob on the wall so that the water will be relatively warm, no use dwelling on it now.

As for the rest of my clothing, I toss it haphazardly into a pile next to the stall and step into the stream of water. I flinch as the water first hits my skin, that was much hotter than I expected, but I will admit that it feels soothing. I sigh contently as I feel my muscles loosening up for the first time in a _long_ time.

Oh, right, I need to wash myself. Less time reveling in the warmth, more time washing or sister will be quite unhappy with me. I certainly don't need that so soon after meeting her.

I reach out and grab the bottle labeled "shampoo", squirt a bit into my hand and begin scrubbing through the tangled mess atop my head, wincing each time my fingers get caught in a knot. Considering that it's been a while since I last washed my hair, you can probably imagine how knotted it is. After a few minutes of scrubbing and fighting through knotted hair, I let the water rinse the suds out, watching as it pools around the drain and vanishes from sight.

Next comes body wash, I'm quite certain that the amount of filth that I'm about to wash off is going to be just as sickening. I can't help but shudder; I really do need to wash more often going forward. Otherwise, I might end up leaving a literal trail of dirt everywhere I go. As I snap open the top, I notice a faint odor of what seems to be a citrus like scent. Not exactly my preference, but it's better than what I suppose I've smelt like as recently as last night. Something tells me that the light teasing sister gave me was her way of very politely saying that I smell like a barge.

In retrospect, that's probably not the best impression to make the first time one meets his sister, but technically, that's not my fault. I didn't even know I _had_ a sister before last night. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I step out of the stream and grab the towel of the rack, turning the knob to the off position as I begin drying myself off. I'm not going to bother pretending that being properly showered for the first time in who knows how long feels absolutely amazing, quite refreshing actually. I feel reinvigorated, almost like I could go out and stop a few muggings, maybe a bank robbery, and break up a drug deal to top it all off.

To my annoyance, my soaked hair keeps falling into my eyes; after a few failed attempts to brush it back or blow it out of my face, I grudgingly admit that it may very well be time for a haircut. Either that, or I need to find a way to take better care of it so that it doesn't end up a looking like a bird's nest again. That, of course, is easier said than done; Aunt Petunia tried time and time again to forcibly comb my hair into a "proper" hairstyle, to no avail.

I wonder if sister managed to find me those clothes she mentioned earlier, it would be a bit ridiculous to put on the same filthy clothes after just washing myself. Looking to my left, I can see that her efforts were successful; on the floor lay a pair of dark blue jeans, a red t-shirt with the letters "USA" printed across the front in blue letters with red trim, a pair of socks, and an old pair of tennis shoes. I'd ask why there were no boxer shorts or underwear, but I'm going to assume that she knew that I wouldn't feel comfortable (or even pleased with) wearing someone else's _old underwear_.

That's just plain disgusting, even for me.

As I pull the shirt over my head, I can't help but notice that the fabric feels much nicer than that of the shirt I discarded just moments ago. That being said, having jeans that, for the first time, aren't ripped six ways from Sunday is nice as well. They fit pretty well actually. In fact, these clothes are much more comfortable than my old ones, much easier to move in as well. It probably helps that they've been washed somewhat regularly and that they seem to be the appropriate size for me; I do believe this is the first time I've ever had proper fitted clothing.

I'll have to thank sister and this Garfield person whenever I get a chance to meet him.

This time when I examine myself in the mirror, I'm actually interested in what I see in the reflection. I look like a normal boy. I'm clean for the first time in weeks, but I'm also not dressed in cast-offs for the first time in years. Granted, these clothes are hand-me-downs, but at least I didn't have to dig through the garbage to find them.

My skin is still the same pale, white as it's always been, but that's not something that's going to change without spending time in the sun; something I don't normally do. For once, my hair isn't a disheveled mess, but I think that's due to the fact that it's still quite wet than anything else.

My eyes, well, they still glow that same haunting, sickly green as before, but for some odd reason, I don't feel as opposed to their appearance as I have for most of my life. Thinking back on sister's words, I guess I could say truthfully that my eyes are quite _unique_ in more ways than one. Not many people have this particular shade of green, let alone a pair of glowing green irises like mine! Of course, not many people can delve into someone's mind, find their worst fears, and trap that person in a reoccurring, realistic illusion of said fear _just_ by locking eyes with them.

But, I'm going to assume that sister was referring to the unique coloration of my eyes, and not the power they hold. It's a much, much more positive thought. A much _happier_ thought.

I have to say, the contrast between this Garfield person's red t-shirt and sister's dark, blue cloak is a rather interesting sight. Speaking of sister's cloak, I should put that on before I forget and leave it here.

The fact that I feel more secure the moment I have it wrapped around my shoulders is irrelevant.

Back to the mirror, the red and blue contrast isn't as bad as I thought it would be, it actually looks better than I thought it would be. I pause for a moment to examine sister's cloak, namely the red gem housed in the gold pendant mounted on the clasp. The gem itself seems to have a second color in it, almost like a shadow in the shape of a raven's head. Actually, it looks _exactly_ like a raven's head; I have to say, it's a rather nice personal touch to her attire, sort of like what the Maple Leafs logo on my hoodie has become for me.

That being said, I wonder if I can persuade sister to let me look for some clothing with the logo on it when she takes me to the store. I can't see any legitimate reason why she would have a problem with it, unless of course she's a fan of another team. Sister doesn't strike me as much of a sports fan, let alone a hockey fan, so I doubt that will be an issue.

I quickly slip on my borrowed socks and shoes and press the access panel to the door, which slides open almost immediately, revealing the patiently waiting form of my sister, hovering a few feet off the ground in a classic meditation pose.

How exactly is she doing that? I don't see any wires holding her up, and she definitely isn't sitting on any chair that I can see. Unless… unless she is using her powers to create the illusion of floating in midair; I have heard of her using such methods to frighten criminals into a state of shock so that she can capture them easier, perhaps she was resting and did it unintentionally.

Ok, that theory is probably way off the mark. If I were to make an actual _educated_ guess based on what I've seen and read about her powers, I'd have to say that she's probably using telekinesis to make herself float. I wonder if it's supposed to help her "find her center" or whatever one does when meditating properly.

Now, how on Earth am I supposed to get her attention? I doubt she'll appreciate it if I were to suddenly grab her shoulder and yell out her name while she's focused inwards, I imagine that would have a similar effect on her powers as me losing my temper does to mine. In short, everything around us starts breaking or exploding.

I don't think that's something I want to explain to her on just my first day here, let alone the rest of her team.

Announcing my presence is probably the safest way to go, that way she's startled and there's no risk of her losing control of her powers. As I open my mouth to speak, she turns to look over her shoulder at me. "Done?" She asks, blinking a few times to regain focus (or so I assume).

"How did you know I was there?" I blurt out before I can even think.

"I can sense disturbances in the surrounding environment, even while meditating," She answers politely. She pauses for a moment as if thinking and then smirks at me. "Curious little brothers are no exception to that."

That warm inside feeling is back once again, that feeling that comes every time she hugs me, each and every time she assured me that I am indeed her little brother. That feeling that serves to reaffirm that this isn't just some dream world my mind has created to help protect itself from the trauma of my emotional breakdown last night. It's real, very real.

I don't even bother trying to resist the sudden urge to hug her again; any semblance of hesitation or restraint was thrown out the window a while ago. Judging by the gasp and brief loss of altitude, she wasn't expecting that. Fortunately, she managed to adjust in time and plant her feet before both of us fell to the floor in a tangled heap. That would've been quite embarrassing.

Sister chuckled uneasily. "Not to dissuade you from showing affection in the future, but could you give me a bit of warning if you're going to hug me while I'm levitating?"

"Sorry, sister," I mumble into her shoulder.

"That's quite alright, you didn't know any better. Now, I do believe it's time to go to the kitchen and find you something to eat." As if on cue, my stomach chose that moment to growl, much to sister's amusement. "It seems that the motion has been seconded," She adds, steering me towards the elevator doors.

"Elevators? Why not just phase up through the ceiling to get to the kitchen?" That question is required. I mean it would certainly be quicker, right?

"Because the last time I did so, I phased _through_ Garfield. He was so startled that he couldn't eat for a week afterwards."

I nod as the doors open and the two of us step into the elevator. "So, this is more of a courtesy than an actual mandate?"

"Indeed, " She nods in return. "Restricting the use of our powers while within the Cave would be counterproductive if an invading force somehow gained entry. Therefore, any limitations on use of our powers is more of a professional courtesy than a mandate enforced by disciplinary action."

"I assume that the case becomes different if one were to use his powers against a team member."

"That assumption would be correct, for obvious reasons. Those are the team's reasons for this, mine, however, are much different," As she spoke, her tone changed from being one of casual conversation to a much more stern. "I do not use my powers here due to their nature and the sheer magnitude of them. My powers, _our_ powers, are not playthings, Harry; they are to be treated with utmost respect and wielded with caution."

I had already known that my powers were not to be taken lightly, but hearing this come directly from my sister gives it a greater implication, a greater impact on something I already knew. It's as if I'm relearning that lesson from years ago; these powers are great, but they can be equally terrible.

"Yes, sister," It's the only answer. There is no alternative response. Sister knows these powers better than anyone; she mastered them and wields them with ease. She would know the dangers of letting them run amok. "I understand."

"Good. However, you should not worry yourself so much over possessing these powers. I merely want you to understand that with these powers, you and I inherit a responsibility to control them lest they become harmful to those around us. I will teach you how to properly harness and wield your powers, but it will require unparalleled dedication and discipline on your part."

"I understand. I won't disappoint you, sister."

She shook her head, slightly unhappy with the response. "Learning to master your powers cannot be something you do to please _me_, Harry, it must be something you desire. Our powers are based on emotions and intent; just as you intend to show criminals their deepest darkest fears when you look into their eyes, I intended to bring the two of us home when I teleported us to my room last night. This is something you must do for yourself."

"I see, so this is something I have to want to do, regardless of what others want."

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Your focus cannot come from your desire to gain the approval of others. You may use your desire to do good in order to help others, but gaining their approval is poor motivation due to how fickle human emotions can be. Focus on control, then on action." She paused for a moment, placing a hand on my shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. "I will indeed teach you, but impressing me should be the least of your concerns; I will do my best to support you, all that I ask in return, is that you put forth your best effort to learn."

The concept of near unconditional support from another individual is a foreign concept to me. For as long as I can remember, gaining the approval (or in most cases, simple tolerance) of others hinged on what I could do _for them_. Whether it be cooking meals or doing yard work for the Dursleys or doing classmates' homework so they wouldn't pick on me, it all hinged on what I could do for them in return for their "kindness".

The Dursleys. I have to control my powers. I have to make sure nothing like _that_ happens again. I made a promise. I have to learn control.

I promised.

The elevator speaker system makes an audible "DING", which brings me back to the real world. The doors open once more, revealing a rather sizable kitchen. I can't help but note how jealous Aunt Petunia would be if she were here to see it; the designer certainly spared no expense. The appliances were all stainless steel, giving the entire room a rather futuristic look; the counter tops were black granite, regularly cleaned it seems; the floor is tiled with white and blue tile plates, a neutral color combination. There was only one thing out of place: a single, green bowl sat atop the counter by what I assume to be the pantry.

I would've gladly continued my examination, I would've been happy to see what else was in the kitchen, but my concentration was broken when a banana, an apple, and an orange suddenly came flying out of nowhere, landing safely in the bowl.

I jumped back in shock and began searching the room, trying to find the cause of the flying fruit. Sister was a step ahead of me, she was glaring at something behind me, something I'd missed during my initial examination. I spin on my heel, coming face to snout with a monkey. A green-furred monkey.

I'm not a zoologist, but I've never seen or heard of such an oddly colored animal.

Sister, on the other hand, has. "Garfield, you imbecile!" She snapped.

Garfield? The _green monkey_ is Garfield? This is abnormal even for me; the way she spoke of him earlier, I thought he was a teammate somewhere around her age. Wait… I'm wearing a monkey's clothes? And yet, they're still somehow more comfortable than any of Dudley's hand me downs.

To my surprise, the monkey starts chattering back to sister, as if trying to explain himself, as if he can understand English. Sister, however, would have none of it. "Stop your incessant chattering and change back to your human form, fool! Are you _trying_ to startle him?"

Garfield, the damn monkey, flinched and nodded his head once before turning his attention to me. He began to grow and change before my eyes; his snout began to reduce in size and change in appearance, taking on the shape of a human nose; his face began to shift, that monkey smile changed to the rueful grin of a young teenage boy; one just a few years older than me. A _green skinned_ teenage boy.

It all clicked; green skin and the ability to change into animals. This is Beast Boy, resident changeling of the Teen Titans. Garfield is Beast Boy.

That certainly clears things up nicely.

"Sorry, Rae," He said, chuckling nervously. "Didn't think you guys were coming up here so soon."

"That doesn't explain why you chose to appear as a monkey, Garfield. And my name is Raven, _not Rae_!" Mental note: Never refer to sister as 'Rae'. EVER.

Garfield didn't even bat an eye. He must be used to drawing sister's ire; he's a much braver man than I am. "I couldn't reach the fruit," He explained with a shrug of his shoulders. "I've told Vic time and time again that I can't reach that high, but he always forgets, or so he claims. I swear he just does it to subtly mock my height! Freaking, walking tin can!"

"I doubt that Victor would be so childish, though I can't quite say the same for you."

"I have _no_ idea what you're implying, Rae. I'm actually quite offended! To think you'd besmirch my good name in front of our little guest!"

"I'm surprised you even know what that word means," She muttered under her breath. I'm not going to lie; I'm confused. Their words are hurtful, but I can't sense any malice coming from either of them, only amusement. Am I missing something here?

"So," Garfield says, turning back to me once again. "This is him, huh? He's your little brother?" He paused for a moment, taking the time to give me a quick once over before grinning at me. "I can definitely see the resemblance; he's got that whole 'looking right through someone' vibe. Anyways, all teasing aside, my name, as you might have gathered from your dear sister's remarks, is Garfield. I go by Beast Boy in the field, but my friends all call me 'Gar'. Well, all except for your sister."

An awkward silence hangs over us for a moment until I realize that he's waiting for me to reply and sister isn't going to do so for me. She obviously wants me to speak for myself, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. "You… are green."

Not the best start, but it is his most eye-grabbing feature.

Garfield simply grins even wider, apparently amused by my response. "Oh, yeah, he's definitely your brother, Raven!"

"I sent a message last night, didn't that clue you in?" Sister drawled, rolling her eyes at him and then turning to me. "Yes, he's green, but that shouldn't be the first thing you say to him, Harry. Try again."

"I'm sorry, sister, you as well, Garfield," He nods, still smiling broadly. Does anything faze him? I file that away for future investigation and resume my introduction. "My name is Harry."

Garfield stayed silent for a moment, probably expecting me to say something more. I don't. Based on sister's information last night, the Titans were already briefed on my actions over the past five years, he knows all necessary information about me. Other than that, there's not that much to say about me.

He seemed to get the message and continued as if this wasn't an awkward meeting, perhaps due to prior experiences with sister. "No worries, Harry, you're not the worst I've dealt with when it comes to the color of my skin. Anyways," He continued, holding his hand out in front of him. "Nice to meet you, man, any friend – or brother, in this case – of Raven's is more than welcome here."

I stare blankly at the offered hand for a moment before looking to sister, silently asking for approval. She nods without hesitation. She trusts him; that's good enough for me.

I grasp his hand firmly and shake it; if possible, his grin widened even more. He's certainly a friendly person. The intensity of the positive emotions literally radiating off of him is almost dizzying, the only time I've ever picked up anything like this with my empathy is when I pass by a happy family on the street.

Why is he so happy that someone new has come into what is essentially his home? More importantly, why is he so happy that someone like _me_ has come into his home?

This doesn't make any sense to me. Sister's happiness and desire for me to remain, I can understand. His acceptance and happiness with the situation is baffling, frustratingly so.

Sister's voice interrupted my musings. "What would you like for breakfast, Harry?"

I shrug my shoulders in response. "A slice of bread, I suppose. I don't eat very much. A cup of water would be appreciated as well."

"You need to eat more than that to get proper nutrition," Garfield interjected, reaching into his bowl and tossing me an apple. "Here, that's yours. I'll grab you a glass of milk, your body needs the calcium."

"That isn't –"

"He's right, Harry," Sister chides. "Garfield has been fighting criminals for a very long time, he knows that nutrition is important, even if he is an imbecile."

"Gee, thanks, Rae. I'm _really_ feeling the love!" Garfield drawled from behind the refrigerator door.

"Shut up and pour the milk or I'll send you to another dimension."

"Please! If you were gonna do that, you'd have done it years ago! Besides, who would you talk to in the mornings?"

"Harry, obviously," She replied with a smirk as she adds a banana and an orange to one of the bowls.

Garfield staggered back, holding his hand over his heart as if he'd been stabbed, eyes widened in mock horror. "You wound me, Rae! I thought we had something special!"

"I think you've finally lost your mind. Probably due to your video game fixation," She retorted with a roll of her eyes, simultaneously grabbing our bowls and gesturing for me to follow her over to the table.

I feel like I'm missing a portion of this conversation, the part that _isn't_ being said out loud. Perhaps it's something I'll pick up on later when I've had more time to interact with the two of them. For now, breakfast is the most pressing issue, or so I've been informed.

Proper nutrition has never been high on my list of priorities, but if sister says it's important, I suppose that I should follow her example. However, as I take note of the food she and Garfield gave me, I can't help but realize one fact.

"Sister," I say nervously. "I don't think I can eat all of this."

"Try," She insists, pushing the bowl in front of me.

"But I don't normally eat this much in a single day!"

"I expect you to _at least_ finish the apple," She says with a stern look. I can't help but squirm a bit in my seat; my darkness once again sends me a warning to listen to the woman before me; the incredibly powerful woman who just _happens_ to be my older sister.

Garfield strode over with a bowl of his own, balancing two rather tall glasses of milk in his free hand. "Don't forget this, kiddo," He adds jovially, placing one of them in front of me.

I gape at the two of them with wide eyes; silently begging them to tell me this is a joke! There's absolutely no way they can actually expect me to eat _that_ much! Oh, I'm hungry, no question about it, but I never eat this much in one sitting. _Ever_.

No such luck. Now what do I do? I mean; I doubt I can eat a whole apple and finish a glass of milk, but sister seems adamant that I do so to obtain proper daily nutrition. I don't want to disappoint sister, so I suppose I should bear it.

I reach out and pick up the apple, tentatively bringing it to my mouth, well aware of the two sets of eyes monitoring my progress. I did my best to ignore that feeling of awkwardness, and took a bite. I chewed slowly, savoring the sweet taste and cool juices of the ripe, red apple. I'll admit it, sister was right; this is _much_ better than plain bread.

Ok, fine! I'll stop pretending! Plain bread doesn't even _begin_ to compare to the taste of the luscious red orb I hold in my hands! I take another bite, and then another in rapid succession!

I suddenly feel hungrier than before! In fact, hungry doesn't describe it; I'm starving! How long have I been this hungry without realizing it?

Seemingly satisfied that I was eating, Garfield decided to strike up another conversation. "So," He began, that wide, toothy grin on his face once again. "Harry, right? Mind if I ask you something?"

Hesitantly, I glance over to sister, looking for approval. She nods, she approves of me speaking with him. Normally, it would be quite odd for someone to advocate another person holding a conversation with a party deemed unsavory.

As I said, that would be the case in any normal situation; this is anything but normal. Though her words were caustic, I could detect no malice from sister. In fact, she seemed pleased throughout the ordeal, as if this were a key facet in their relationship; as if this is some sort of game to them.

Is that possible? Could insulting someone be considered good if it were part of the relationship? Part of some game? I contemplate this as I take yet another bite of the apple, briefly losing focus as I revel in its taste once again.

"Alright," He says, bringing me back to Earth. "So, tell me, how do you feel?"

"About what?"

"About having the distinct honor and privilege to step into Raven's room and _live_ to tell the tale?"

"Garfield!" Sister hisses angrily, cheeks slightly reddened with embarrassment. Apparently, isn't something I'm meant to hear; naturally, I took another bite of my apple and observe the exchange. I might learn something about this rather odd relationship sister has with him.

"What? It's true! Last time I tried going in there, you nearly crushed me with a bookcase!"

"Because you were fooling around with the mirror, despite your little mishap the _last time_ you did so!"

"Ok, fair enough. But, still! A bookcase! Isn't that a bit excessive?!"

"I thought you'd appreciate me literally throwing the book at you," She deadpanned.

Garfield opened his mouth to object, but to my surprise, he stopped and thought about it for a moment. "Ok, the literal connotations were rather funny if I look back at it and _blatantly ignore the fact that you nearly crushed me_!"

"Uh, excuse me?" I interject, letting my curiosity get the better of me. "Why exactly is Garfield acting like my going into your room with permission is unbelievable?"

Sister made as if to answer, but Garfield beat her to it. "Because it is! No one goes into Raven's room! _No one_!"

"Then why was I allowed in?" I ask, turning to look at sister and taking another bite of the apple.

"Because you are family and actually welcome," She replies sincerely, before glancing and smirking at Garfield. "On the other hand, this imbecile is a minor annoyance that I just can't seem to get rid of."

"Awww, c'mon, Rae!" He whined pitifully. "How can you say that after all we've been through? Like that time I held you in my arms, cradling you like a –" He was cut off when a large apple struck him in the forehead.

"You caught me in mid fall and were transformed into a foul-smelling gorilla. Don't give him false information, fool."

I couldn't help but wince at the sight of a rather sizable bruise beginning to form; I wonder if that'll hurt when he transforms into an animal that uses its head as a battering ram. Perhaps I'll ask later.

Garfield rubbed the mark on his head, hissing in pain as he did so. "Damn, Rae! I've heard of tough love, but you take it to the extreme!"

Call me naive, but I don't think sister was trying to convey some sense of love when she pegged him with the apple. "Is he always like this?"

"Yes," She groaned, exasperation evident in her tone. This obvious frustration seemed to amuse Garfield even further, if the poorly hidden grin is any hint.

He leaned toward me as if he were going to share a secret, and spoke in a stage whisper, obviously intending to further agitate my fuming older sibling. "Don't let her fool ya, kiddo, she just likes to pretend to hate my jokes! She really thinks I'm hilarious!"

"Is that so?" I ask, glancing out of the corner of my eye to check and see if sister was still trying to kill him with her rather impressive glare. She was indeed.

"It is!" There was that toothy grin again. On second glance, I can't help but notice that his canines are longer than that of an average human. A feature influenced by his ability to transform into animals, perhaps? "I can prove it too! You see, a few years back, my buddy, Vic, and I went into Raven's room and – "

"That's more than enough, _Garfield_!" Sister growled threateningly, eliciting a small 'eep' of fear from the green changeling.

I'm very curious what he was referring to, but I'll keep it to myself. I'd like to stay on sister's good side and not toe the line like Garfield seems so intent on doing.

Then again, perhaps Garfield isn't _quite_ as much as a fool as sister claims him to be. Not to say that I'm accusing her of lying, but he has survived living in the same facility as her for quite some time now; the two of them must have found some way of coexisting, otherwise I doubt sister would've bothered introducing him to me.

So, which is it? Is he an imbecile? Or is he a friend to sister? Damn it all, I'm confused! Their words are cutting but I don't sense any malice or legitimate dislike stemming from them! This is one of the rare occasions in which empathy is just as confusing as it is informative; all this is serving to do is give me a splitting headache!

Change the subject, find something to talk about that isn't so… so… _this_. "Anything else?" I ask, raising a hand to massage the bridge of my nose in an attempt to soothe the pounding in my forehead. Understanding human interactions and the emotions involved is far more difficult than I imagined.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I said I had stuff to ask you. You go by 'Wraith', right?"

"I didn't choose the moniker, but yes, I've been called 'Wraith' most frequently. Why?"

"Well, I was wondering whether or not your full name followed the pattern."

"Pattern?"

"Y'know, the whole thing with having the name of a type of bird in your name? I mean, obviously your first name is Harry, but is your middle name something like Crow? Or Jackdaw? Or even Magpie?"

I take back my previous thought. I'm starting to lean more and more towards sister's verdict: he's a fool. A thought that was no doubt running through sister's mind as she palmed her face and spoke in a long-suffering tone. "Garfield, shut up."

"What? It's a legitimate question!"

"No, it's another one of your childish jokes."

"But it makes sense if you think about it!"

"I'm thinking about all possible names and it still doesn't make sense," I chip in helpfully.

Garfield stared at me for a moment, his mouth wide open as he tried to find the words to respond. With a groan he banged his head against the table before finally speaking, not bothering to raise his head. "Oh, great! You really _are_ just like her! Even worse, you ruin my jokes without even _meaning _to!"

Ruin his jokes? I thought I was helping. I turn to sister, intending to ask her what he means. To my surprise, she's smirking at me; I can sense amusement literally pouring off of her in waves. Was it something I said?

"I wondered when we would reach that first time in which you did something that made me proud to be your sister," She said with an amused shake of her head. "We're there already."

I'm not sure what I've done to earn such praise, but I'll take it. I hesitantly return her smile as that now familiar warm feeling hits me once again. If this becomes a reoccurring theme in the latest chapter of my life, I certainly won't complain. It's definitely a welcome change from the constant state of misery I had been living in for the previous five years.

"I still say my joke works," Garfield grumbled in protest. "Just because you don't like it and he doesn't get it doesn't mean it's bad!"

"A joke is supposed to make the audience laugh, not question your intelligence," Sister retorted with a roll of her eyes.

"It doesn't make any logical sense," I add. "In general, none of the species of birds you listed are used as names for people. All you did was list scavengers or birds associated with bad omens."

"Considering the fact that people have named their kids after characters from _Star Trek_, I think it's safe to say that there's a possibility that I'm right."

I tilt my head to the side in confusion. What on Earth is he talking about? "I'm not familiar with _Star Trek_, but I suppose I could be wrong."

"Statistically, there has to be someone with an odd name," Sister states dryly.

"HA! So you admit that I'm right!" Garfield shouted triumphantly.

"No, I just acknowledge that you're not the only oddball in the world."

Ouch. Even I felt the sting behind that barb. Chalk one up in the win column for sister, there's not much one can say in response to something like that. Judging by the grimace and muttered expletive, Garfield knows this all too well.

"I walked right into that one, didn't I?" He asked sheepishly.

"Indeed," she replied in her typical dry tone.

Briefly shifting the subject for a moment, I've eaten most of my apple now, I feel full for the first time in a while. Glancing at the bantering duo and making sure that they're not watching, I slip the remnants into the bowl and make as if to walk to the kitchen, moving gradually so I don't attract their attention.

"Where do you think you're going?" I nearly jump at the sound of sister's voice, my instincts scream at me to run, years of experience of fleeing the instance someone notices me flash through my mind as my entire body tensed. I shift my weight forward and prepare to take that first stride to safety, but then I think twice and realize that I'm not on the streets anymore.

That question on the streets would be a threat; here it's just a question. "To the kitchen," I reply as I turn to look over my shoulder at her. "I'm finished eating."

Sister crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at me. "You ate the whole apple?"

Nearly. "Yes."

"I highly doubt that," she says, looking at something behind me. I turn to face forward again, and am met by a rather surprising sight.

The apple is floating just in front of my face. It seems that she decided to prove a point here: she can tell when I'm lying.

Of course, Garfield just _couldn't_ be left out. "You haven't even taken a sip of your milk, kiddo," I can practically _see_ the smug grin on his face without having to turn and look at him. "Did you really think we wouldn't notice just because we were having a little fun?"

I wonder, if I throw the remnants of this apple at him, will sister let me off the hook this once? Somehow, I don't think I'm that lucky. Instead, I snatch the apple out of the air and take a particularly vicious bite of it, holding the finished core up so that both of them can see that it's clearly been consumed to their requirement.

"The milk as well, kiddo." I resist the urge to turn and glare at him; he's really starting to test my patience. What's worse, I can feel the amusement radiating off of him!

I march back over to the table, thinking of various ways to wipe that irritating smirk off his face as I pick up the glass and bring it to my lips. This tears it; he's definitely just as annoying as sister claimed he was.

And now I have to live in the same facility as him. Seriously, what did I do in a past life to deserve this punishment? Was I the guy that shot Archduke Ferdinand?

With the glass now emptied, I hold it out to sister, as if providing her with actual proof that I've done what I've been asked. She simply nods and resumes eating her breakfast. Finally. I don't think I could eat any more even if I tried forcing myself to do so. I'm set for the day. Time to put my dishes in the sink, and revel in the momentary escape from that smug changeling.

Wait a minute, didn't they mention "proper daily nutrition?" Does that mean they expect me to eat _again_ at some point in the day? I wince at the thought and the unpleasant taste of bile on the back of my tongue. There is no possible way I could eat again today! My stomach would explode!

Okay, so maybe that's an exaggeration, but you get the point!

I can hear the two of them talking as I approach the sink, but I recall hearing somewhere that it's rude to eavesdrop on a private conversation, so I do my best to block out the sounds of Garfield bantering with sister. She's shown me a great deal of trust by bringing me home, into her room, which I now know is a rare for someone to actually have permission to enter; therefore, I should show her the same trust and courtesy by not being nosy, even if I should happen to be the subject of their conversation.

For all I know, she's reaffirming the fact that my middle name doesn't have something to do with birds. Garfield doesn't strike me as the type of person to give up on one of his jokes. He seems more likely to beat the damn thing into the ground.

And I have to live in with _that_ nearby. If not for the fact that sister brought me here and wanted me to live here with her, I'd be back on the streets and sleeping on a park bench before you could blink. He may be sister's friend – how she manages to put up with him on a daily basis, I'll probably never know – but I can already tell that he's going to drive me spare with his ridiculousness.

If the Titans don't already have a team psychiatrist, they might have to get one if only just to help me hold onto what little sanity I have left; however minute that amount may be.

I gently place the dishes in the sink, so as not to make too much noise and disturb the conversation at the table. With that done, I turn around to return to sister's side, but I come in contact with what seems like solid stone. Shaking my head to clear the cobwebs, I notice that I haven't run into stone, I've run into a person. Judging by the fact that my eyes are only level with his abdomen, he's rather large.

Dressed in blue denim jeans, combat boots, and a black t-shirt with a red pentagon outline surrounding Superman's famous logo and holding a large jug of water in one hand, the mountain sized teen stares down at me, deep blue eyes widened in slight confusion. I've seen his face in the papers; the sight of a red and black version of Superman's trademark logo confirms my hypothesis.

Superboy. I just walked into the teenage clone of the Man of Steel. Oh, hell.

If he considers me a threat, I'm dead. This guy can quite literally bench press a 747, he could easily snap me like a bloody toothpick.

To my surprise, he doesn't take a threatening stance, he doesn't growl obscenities or threats, he doesn't so much as demand to know why I am present. He simply nods, turns back toward the refrigerator and begins searching for something to eat.

I let out a breath of relief. The reality of the situation I'm in just came crashing down on me without warning: I may be in sister's home, but I'm also in the Cave, the base of operations for the Teen Titans. I'm in their lair.

I'm a minnow in a sea of sharks.

Fortunately for me, he seems content to root around in the refrigerator and leave me to my business, almost as if he's ignoring me. Personally, I'm fine with that. If he's ignoring me, he's not beating me to a pulp. I'm quite happy in my current, non-pulp state.

Introductions can wait until he demands one, or whenever he decides he's in the mood to talk. Judging by the way he carries himself and the fact that I didn't hear so much as a surprised gasp or grunt from him, he's a very quiet, reserved guy.

Why couldn't I have eaten breakfast with him instead of Garfield? It probably wouldn't have been as confusing.

Superboy stepped back from the refrigerator, holding a gallon jug of milk in his hand, and shut the door; I would imagine that he did so as gently as possible, so as not to rip it clean off its hinges. He turned to face me, silently regarding me for a moment. At long last, he spoke. "So you're him, huh?"

I barely resist the urge to reply "that depends on which 'him' you're referring to"; only the memory that he can knock me _through_ the floor stops me from doing so. "I suppose I am," I reply as diplomatic as possible.

He quirks an eyebrow at my response and uncaps the jug. He threw his head back and began drinking, straight out of the jug. I do desperately hope that he didn't do that _before_ Garfield poured that glass of milk for me. Judging by the rate at which he's drinking, Superboy will polish the whole damn thing off right before my eyes.

I guess he needs a lot of sustenance to fuel that incredible strength of his.

He stops about the halfway point and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "Raven's brother, Harry, right?" He asks as he walks over to the cabinet and pulls out a plate.

Oh. I guess I am 'him' then. "Yes."

"I see." He mutters as he grabs a box of cereal and begins pouring it into the bowl, along with some of his private jug of milk. "The name's Conner, Conner Kent."

I stay silent, not quite sure how to respond to the introduction. 'Nice to meet you'? 'Hi, I'm living here now'? Neither really strikes me as… well… me being me. It feels forced. Perhaps it's due to the two of us being unfamiliar and naturally bad at communication. Without a certain green changeling to fill the awkward pauses with an ill-timed joke, this really feels tense.

I suppose that means that Garfield does have his uses. Damn. He must never know or I'll never have another moment of peace.

"Hey, Conner!" Speak of the devil and he shall open his annoyingly large mouth. "Stop scaring the kid! Hell, I don't think I could pull off that deer in the headlights look without turning into one and walking in front of an oncoming truck!"

"Oh, if _only_ we were so lucky," Sister quipped as she approaches and dumps her dishes into the sink.

Conner and I both exchange looks, his face showing exasperation while mine shows the slightest hint of unease. With a sigh, he shakes his head and mouths "Happens all the time" before picking up his bowl and milk jug and walking out of the room, most likely to find some peace and quiet.

I, however, remain where I am and watch the battle of wits, turning my head back and forth with each exchange as if I were watching a tennis match. I'm not getting any sense of enjoyment out of the scene, but I can't very well leave sister's side and wander the Cave on my own. Getting lost would be the very least of my problems; what if I run into someone who isn't as trusting as Garfield or as willing to reserve judgment as Conner?

So, here I remain, watching this rather confusing exchange of harsh words without any real vitriol behind them. How confusing. This entire encounter with Garfield has only served to confuse me even more; I've never seen two individuals engage in such a heated discussion without actually _meaning_ it.

I know how I feel about sister, she's brilliant. She cares, she's helpful. Garfield, however, is a walking contradiction. Is he a friend? Is he a fool? Both? Can he even be both? Or is there something I'm missing?

I thought life on the streets was full of questions, full of confusing interactions of the so-called "normal" people. _This_ is even farther out of my depth.

What on Earth have I gotten myself into now?

**Chapter End**

**Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Sorry for the delay, but I had to hold off and study for those damn end of term exams.**


	6. The Hearing

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own the **_**Harry Potter**_** series or DC comics, nor do I claim rights to their characters.**

_**Fear and Loathing **_**has gained a second beta! This person is none other than the author of **_**Naturo: Ouroboros**_**, maneyan. If you're looking for quality writing in the Naruto section of this site, I recommend it. Maneyan and my first beta, Heliosion, have been a great help in keeping me motivated and polishing up my writing.**

**Chapter 6: The Hearing**

Back and forth they go, the tennis match of sarcastic comments and one-liners continues, both players reacting almost instantaneously, neither willing to give an inch. I must say I'm quite impressed with their ability to come up with such creative insults, rarely repeating the same ones in their exchange.

My empathy _still_ doesn't detect any real malice or hurtful intent behind the words, just a bit of amusement from my sister and mischievous intent from the resident shape shifter, Garfield Logan. Insulting someone without meaning it still doesn't make much sense to me, but I'm beginning to believe that my earlier thought that this may be a key part to their relationship, as if this is some sort of game they like to play with one another, is correct.

I'd ask, but that would interrupt the exchange and throw it off completely. I don't want that at all. Some of the things they reference involve events in their past, so I've been taking mental notes on as much as I can so that I can ask sister after they've finished.

For example, sister mentioned something about Garfield being taken captive by an alien, who wanted to keep him as a pet. He made a rather interesting face when reminded of that, sort of a cross between abject horror and utter embarrassment. Mental note: despite his ability to turn into animals, Garfield Logan does not enjoy being a pet to any person – or any alien, for that matter.

Garfield, of course, wasn't one to take such a comment lying down. "Yeah? Well, how about that time Mumbo turned you into a bunny? You had a cotton tail, ears and everything, Rae!"

Now, _that_ got a reaction. Garfield's feeling of embarrassment was nothing compared to the wave of mortification I felt from sister. Her eyes were widened in shock, almost as if she was in complete disbelief that he would even _think_ to bring that up. Upon closer inspection, I noticed her cheeks were starting to take on a reddish hue. Slowly, she reached up and grabbed her hood, pulling it over her head as if to shield herself from the sight of the now smirking changeling.

Sister as a rabbit? I scrunched up my nose, cocking my head to the side in confusion as I tried to picture it in my mind. It wasn't exactly an easy image to conjure, she doesn't have any facial features that make her look rabbit-like; her front teeth aren't overly large, nor does her nose twitch – not that I've seen, anyways.

"Please stop trying to visualize it," She requested weakly. "It's not my favorite memory."

Garfield then did something I never expected; he threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her hood down with his free hand. "Aw, c'mon, Rae! I turn into a rabbit all the time! In fact, I'd say you make a better one than I do!"

"I don't think that's helping, Garfield," I say, noticing the light glare sister aims at him. He isn't fazed in the slightest, of course.

He does wince when she jabs him in the ribs with her elbow, before turning her attention to me. "You'll only encourage him, Harry. This buffoon swore never to mention that day, he knows how I feel about it."

"Hey! Give me some credit, I haven't teased you about it until now!"

"You waited until my newfound little brother was here to embarrass me," She drawled. "The only credit I give you is that you're quite an opportunist."

"Right, and you didn't just bring up the time I had to play Fido for a whacked out alien." He said in perfect imitation of her tone, causing sister to narrow her eyes at him.

This is most definitely not good! What began as some sort of odd game involving what I suppose is their brand of humor is devolving into an actual fight! I really should've stopped it sooner, but I wanted to learn more about them. Now, they've actually gone too far, and sister even said part of the reason for it is that I'm here! She's even more embarrassed about whatever rabbit story Garfield is referencing because I'm here!

She shrugged his arm off of her shoulder and opened her mouth to say something, but I chose that moment to intervene. "Please don't fight, " I beg earnestly. "Not over something like this!"

Both of them turned to me in surprise, I could feel a bit of worry and remorse from sister. She immediately stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder, looking straight into my eyes – a gesture of immense trust considering what my gaze can do. "We're not fighting," she says soothingly.

"But you said it was embarrassing because I'm here!" I remind her. "I could feel you getting angry!"

"I think you're confusing anger with annoyance, bud," Garfield put in, his ever present grin still on his face. "Believe me, Rae here doesn't get angry over something silly like me teasing her, even if it is a bit embarrassing."

"Then why is it worse because I'm here?"

Now I felt a flash of regret emitting from sister, she bowed her head slightly, lowering her gaze in either shame or remorse. "I didn't mean it quite like that," she muttered. "It's not bad that you're here with me, I meant that it was a story that I wasn't fond of, and that I didn't want you to hear about it just yet."

Garfield decided to step in and help at this point, apparently feeling the need to further clarify the situation for me. "It's really my bad, Harry, nothing to do with your being here. I only brought it up because I thought it would be funny to share a couple of our less than stellar moments," He admitted.

I look from Garfield, to sister, and then back again, slowly going over the information. This is probably going to be the best opportunity I get to figure out the point of their 'argument that wasn't'. "So, the entire argument wasn't really an argument?"

"That? An argument? Not even close!" He replied, grinning again. "That was just the two of us having a bit of fun, it's something we do to pass the time."

"Why?" I ask, cocking my head to the side again.

Garfield raised an eyebrow in response. "We're friends, it's just something we do."

"Why?" I still don't get it. In fact, that makes_ less_ sense to me. Why would friends make fun of one another? Isn't that bad? I remember when kids made fun of me back in Little Whing- … back when I was in primary school. They weren't trying to be my friends; they meant it. Every word.

Immediately after I asked, the two older teens gave me a rather odd look; I felt concern coming off of both of them in waves. They shared a look and seemed to be holding some sort of silent conversation, probably trying to decide how to explain it. After a moment of rather awkward silence, Garfield chose to explain it. "Sometimes, friends tease each other for a change of pace, just to get a laugh. Does that help?"

Not really, at least not to me. Maybe it's just my lack of experience in this area, but it still doesn't make sense. "How is that funny?" I probably sound like a rather annoying child, but I've always been curious about relationships, whether it be parent and child or simply two friends talking, I've always wondered what I missed out on for most of my life.

"It's kind of hard to explain," he replied unsure of himself. "It depends on the people, I guess. I mean, I used to get made fun of for my skin color a lot and it bugged me, but when Rae or Vic or anyone else on the team does it, I know they're just playing around."

That doesn't help me at all. "Then, how do I figure it out?"

"It's not something you can learn from us explaining it to you," sister replied. "Human relationships are complex, they don't come with an instruction manual. The only real way to learn is through experience."

"Yeah, Rae is living proof of that!" Garfield laughed. "When we first met, she –"

"Garfield, shut up or I'll get the squirt bottle." The comedic changeling shut his mouth with an audible click; his eyes went wide with fear. So, the way to shut him up is to threaten to use a squirt bottle? I wonder what the story behind that is; judging by the look on Garfield's face, it's as embarrassing to him as the rabbit incident – as I shall now call it – was to sister.

"You wouldn't," He said, a hint of betrayal in his voice. It almost sounds as though he's not willing to believe it.

I have a feeling that he won't like the answer, sister certainly sounds serious and I don't sense anything to suggest that she's bluffing. In fact, I sense a hint of mischievous intent from sister, similar to what I was sensing from Garfield earlier. This must be a case of the shoe being on the other foot, or however the expression is worded.

Sister shakes her head in a manner suggesting that she almost pities him for being so foolish, her tone of voice only further supports that suggestion. "Wouldn't I?" She asks, smirking wickedly at her friend.

Apparently, the game has resumed now that I've been informed. Or at least now that they know I'm not worried that sister will unleash her darkness and Garfield won't turn into whatever predator pops into his head.

Back to the current battle of wits, Garfield stared at her for a moment longer, before hanging his head in defeat. "Ah, shit, you would," He grumbled, before stepping back as sister began to glare at him again. "What?"

"Watch your mouth around my brother," Sister replied sternly. "Your sense of humor is fine, but I'll not have him picking up your horrible language."

It looks like Garfield has managed to get himself in real trouble this time. I can't help but feel the need to step in again, not because I worry about them fighting, but because I've already heard that word before. So, in fairness, Garfield hasn't really taught me anything bad. "I've heard worse than that, sister," I say, causing her to nearly hurt her neck with how fast she turned to look in my direction. "In fairness, Garfield really hasn't said anything too bad around me. A man once told me to go fu –" I trail off as sister's stern glare is now aimed at me. Obviously, I'm not helping the matter in the least bit. "I'll stop."

"Smart move," Garfield praised, still eying sister warily. "I think you were just about to pass me on Raven's 'In Trouble' ranking."

"She has a ranking system?" Is that normal? Or is he making another joke?

Before I can contemplate further, sister rolled her eyes and spoke in a sarcastic drawl. "Yes, spots one through ten are taken by Garfield."

"Yes! Still at the top!" Call me crazy, but I doubt that's the reaction she was hoping for. But that didn't bother Garfield at all, it really only served to amuse him further and adopt a rather odd pose; he put his hands on his hips and lifted his head as if he were basking in the glow of the morning Sun. Sister palmed her face and muttered something under her breath, too low for me to pick up.

Somehow, I don't think it was anything overly flattering, in fact, I almost guarantee it. Garfield, apparently, heard it though, as he gave her a somewhat amused look, but was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps he's not as dull as I thought.

The light, almost playful atmosphere was interrupted by the sound of a loud, disembodied voice coming from overhead. "_All Titans, report to the Assembly Hall! I repeat, all Titans, to the Assembly Hall!"_ The voice was slightly distorted by the speaker system, but I could detect the authority it carried. Had I just heard the voice of the Titans' leader, Nightwing?

I noticed the visible change in mood on their faces, both of them tensed suddenly, as if this were something they weren't pleased with. After a moment of silence, sister spoke in a tone rife with worry. "Very well," she said softly, grabbing my shoulder once more; this time, I'm not sure if it was to reassure her or me. She feels so tense; I can feel her anxiety, her worry.

What could a simple announcement possibly do to cause her such distress? What am I missing? "Sister," I begin, understandably concerned for her. "What's wrong?"

She took a deep breath, as if preparing herself to deliver horrible news, and replied, still speaking in that low, strained tone. "Do you remember what I said last night?" She asked. "Do you remember the reason I gave you for why the Titans were searching for you?"

I felt my heart sink, a felt numb, all traces of that warm feeling I'd craved were gone. I had focused so much on the idea of having a sister, the idea of having somewhere to belong, that I hadn't thought about it. Sister searched for me because she guessed – correctly – that I was her half-brother, the Titans were searching for me to interrogate me. All at once, past sessions flashed through my mind. Handcuffed to a chair, wired to a lie detector, that blinding light shining into my eyes as the interrogator barraged me with questions and accusations.

"_What is your name?" "Where are you from?" "Why did you attack those men?" "What did you _do_ to them? Why won't they respond to the world around them?" "What is your intent?"_

I feel anxious; my breaths come in short, quick gasps. My hands begin to shake as I begin to understand the gravity of the situation. I don't want to go into one of those rooms again! I don't want to be chained up and hooked to that machine! I don't want to look back at those miserable days spent digging through trash for food or clothing, or those nights when I slept in whatever hidden space I could find, I want to forget it all! I want to pretend none of it happened, as if it were all a horrible, horrible nightmare from which I only recently awoke!

"Relax," sister sooths me gently. "I won't let them send you back." Eight words were all she needed to say to get her meaning across. My own fear was unnecessary because I wouldn't be going back to that life, she wouldn't let that happen. I'm curious as to what lengths she would go to in order to prevent that from happening if the need arose, but the gesture itself serves its purpose. I feel somewhat relieved.

My mind is still racing, I'm still very worried, but I feel relieved that I'm not alone in the matter this time around. It's comforting. For once, I'm not being left to face my demons on my own, I'm not being left to wallow in my own misery, contemplating whether or not I even _should_ exist.

Still, this interrogation is not something that I'm looking forward to. What if my answers aren't satisfactory? What then? I've escaped lower level law enforcement, but these are the _Teen Titans_, not exactly pushovers. I don't know the layout of the Cave or even its exact location; escape is pointless if I can't navigate after exiting the building!

At that point, all I would be doing would be wandering about aimlessly, just waiting for one of them to drag me back. Then, I would no doubt be treated to a much more hostile welcome. I prefer this semi-awkward meeting with Garfield over the prospect of facing an entire roster of pissed off Titans.

"Come," sister says, guiding me out through the door and into a long hallway. "We can't put this off anymore."

"What do they want?" I ask curiously. Their interest in me has yet to be fully explained, all I know is that they've been looking for me over the course of these past three to four weeks.

Garfield, who had been trailing behind us silently, chose this moment to speak up. "We want to know you," he answered, I turned and raised an eyebrow at him, silently urging him to elaborate. "All we know about you is that you've been fighting and travelling constantly for five years," he explained. "We want to know the boy behind the stories, the real Harry, not the shadowy 'Wraith' figure that the papers made you out to be."

"Then why not just ask? Why is a full assembly needed?"

"One reason is to save time," He replied with a shrug. "The whole point is to have everyone on the team hear your answers instead of each of us cornering you and asking separately."

"Nightwing values efficiency," sister added. "The other reason is that the team is using this as an opportunity to decide whether or not you will be considered as a new member."

Does that mean what I think it means? "They're deciding if I can be a Titan?" I ask for clarification.

"If you want to join," Garfield says with a nod. "We're not forcing you to join if you don't want."

Not join the Teen Titans? I'm depressed and socially awkward, not stupid. Joining the Titans would allow me to continue fighting as I have for the past five years. More importantly, joining the Titans would let me stay close to sister and figure out what our relationship would be going forward. If I joined the Titans, I wouldn't be alone anymore; I'd be part of something. "This isn't an interrogation, is it?" I ask, slowly putting the pieces together.

"Sort of, but minus the handcuffs and bright lights," Garfield answered. "Actually, this is less of an interrogation and more of a job interview." He paused for a moment, before grinning and adding another thought. "Except, you're talking to a bunch of trained heroes instead of a recruiter and the job itself is a lot cooler. Just don't expect Nightwing to lead with that, he'll be more focused on your answers."

"Job interviews don't guarantee employment," I note dryly. "What happens if they don't like my answers?"

Garfield looked a bit uneasy at that question, as if he wasn't quite sure himself. "Nothing," sister cut in stiffly. "If they don't admit you to the team, you simply won't be allowed to fight alongside us. This has no effect on my invitation for you to live here."

"Not fight?" I ask, completely dumbstruck. "They can't stop me from –"

"Even if we allow you to join, you won't see a fight until you're trained to _my_ satisfaction," she interrupts sternly. "_They_ will not stop you, _I_ will."

"What?!"

"I am the older sibling, I make the rules," she replies in the same manner. "I'm already uncomfortable knowing that you ran around for the past five years alone, with no formal training, I am _not_ going to allow you to do so anymore."

"But –"

"She's right, bud," Garfield interrupts. "Can't have an untrained kid running around. Think about it, you've done alright against normal guys, but what happens when you run into someone like Cinderblock? Or Mumbo? Or Brother Blood? We deal with those guys on a regular basis and they can still give us a lot of trouble. Or even worse, what happens if you get taken captive by one of them? Then, we have to find and save you _before_ they decide to kill you." Damn it, he's actually got a point. "I'm not trying to be a jerk, but you've gotta think about this stuff."

I felt completely deflated, any argument I may have tried to formulate now seemed utterly pointless. He was absolutely right. If there was one thing that was easier about being alone, it was that I didn't have to worry about my actions having consequences for anyone that I cared about; I had no one. The only person who could be hurt if I messed up was myself. No one could be used against me and I couldn't be used to hurt anyone else.

As much as I hate to admit it, they're both right. I already know I wouldn't stand a chance against any of the villains Garfield mentioned, not without being trained in my powers and in hand to hand. And if someone were to figure out my relation to Raven of the Teen Titans – which probably wouldn't be all that difficult – I can only imagine how big a target that would put on my back; I'd be their way to hurt her. I'd be her weakness.

We approached a set of metallic doors, with the words "Assembly Hall" prominently displayed across them in large, black block letters. I must admit that it would be helpful if all of the important rooms were labeled such as these, mainly because all the doors look exactly the same. Otherwise, I'll get lost quite frequently.

The doors slid open, revealing a large room, complete with computer terminals, hanging light fixtures and a long table. However, I was more concerned with the occupants of said table to take note of the appearance of the room itself.

They were here. Despite the fact that this should be obvious to me after hearing the call, standing in front of the full roster of the Teen Titans is rather daunting. At the end of the table Superboy – or Conner as he had introduced himself to me – greeted me with a nod, before turning his attention to a blond, slightly tanned girl garbed in a blue skirt, a red cape, and a white top featuring the familiar S logo worn by Superman. At most, she is perhaps a year or two older than me. This must be the famous Supergirl, Superman's cousin by blood. She was much more animated than her male counterpart, while he gave short answers in his typical quiet tone, she was much more verbose and more demonstrative with her hand gestures when she was passionate about a particular subject. I watched as she rolled her eyes at something he said and turned to speak with a green skinned girl seated on her left. This girl had auburn hair and wore a blue cape and skirt and a white top with a red X crossing through the center and branching out to her shoulders and hips.

I rack my brain for a moment, trying to think of whether or not I've seen this girl in the newspapers I've managed to read. I don't recall seeing her in any of the articles about the Titans; perhaps she's a new member. I glance between her and Garfield, taking note of their similarly colored skin. Could they be related? If not, does she have similar powers?

Perhaps that is a bit of a stretch, but such a unique skin coloration could be linked to his shape shifting ability, otherwise I imagine that he'd have changed it to a more normal color a long time ago.

I recognize the other three original Titans: Cyborg and Starfire both have rather distinct appearances, given that Cyborg is half robot, half man and that Starfire's skin is orange and her eyes an emerald green more vibrant than my own, and Nightwing has been displayed _very_ prominently in the newspapers as the Titans' leader and former protégé of the Batman. The urge to observe the vaunted leader of the team is irresistible, of all the Titans I'd seen in those newspapers, I was fascinated by he and my sister the most.

Nightwing, the famed leader and original Boy Wonder, was garbed in his trademark black suit, complete with knife proof vest, light armor on his shoulders, and utility belt around his waist. The trademark blue bird logo is displayed prominently on his chest, with the wings spread out and reaching up to the bottom of his shoulders. Upon further inspection, I notice that the spiked gauntlets/forearm guards worn by all members of the "Bat family" are currently absent; perhaps due to the same reasons that sister doesn't use her powers while within the Cave. His eyes are hidden behind a domino mask, which comes to a point at his nose, making him look more like a bird of prey than a normal human.

My fascination with my sister was based around her powers being so impressive, and mine so similar. Nightwing was impressive for a completely different reason: he had no powers to speak of, just his training and wits. Of course, saying that he had "just" his training was like saying that my gaze would "only" make people see their worst fears. The raven-haired leader of the Titans was known for his mastery of martial arts and impressive – almost impossible to replicate – acrobatic ability. When someone went toe to toe with Nightwing, that person _didn't_ come back for more if they could avoid it; the man left an impression – usually one of his fists on the person's face.

If I were to venture a guess as to which Titan lead the investigation, he would be suspect number one. I'd actually be surprised if he wasn't. I wouldn't doubt that he was able used the most minute detail to find out pretty much everything about me. In fact, I'll wager that he was the one to link my actions in throughout Canada and the United States with the circumstances surrounding my flight from England.

My staring has gone unnoticed so far, Nightwing is currently engaged in a discussion with a pair of red-headed young men, one of whom is dressed in a yellow spandex suit with a red lightning bolt logo on his chest, the other in a red, sleeveless vest and domino mask, a bow and a quiver of arrows is slung over the back of his chair. If my memory serves, the yellow garbed one is Kid Flash, widely known as "the Fastest Boy Alive". If there was any way for me to describe him, it would be that he is almost a perfect contrast to Nightwing. Whereas Nightwing's posture is more serious and refined, Kid Flash seemed more relaxed, his feet were kicked up onto the table and his arms were folded behind his head, providing support while he lounged in his chair. When he was addressed, he opened one eye halfway and shrugged before replying in kind, nonchalantly giving an answer and then closing his eyes once more.

His fellow red head, Speedy, is more similar to Nightwing, in fact, he seems even more tense. His jaw is set in a firm line and his arms are folded across his chest, giving the impression that his patience is wearing thin before this meeting has even begun. While his domino mask covers his eyes, I can tell that he is focused on me; he hasn't looked away since I walked in the room, even when being addressed by Nightwing himself. The red archer has spotted his target and doesn't plan on letting me out of his sights.

I count off each member present, adding in my sister and Garfield since they will no doubt be joining their teammates momentarily, and notice that one Titan is missing. If I remember correctly, I recently read an article, which stated that Aqualad of Atlantis had joined the Titans as a full-time member after years of being an ally from time to time. I turn towards sister, nudging her gently to get her attention. "Where is Aqualad?" I whisper.

"Aquaman, the King of Atlantis, summoned him," she replies out of the corner of her mouth. "He'll be briefed on the details when he returns."

Well, that does make sense. One interview with Aqualad revealed that a condition of his membership with the Titans was that he would be permitted to return to Atlantis when summoned by his King; the Atlantean Titan's loyalty to his home is indeed an admirable quality. I imagine that he extends that same devotion to his part in the ongoing battle against evil.

Garfield chose that moment to give me a slight nudge towards the table, ushering me forward to be judged by ten of the most famous heroes not on the roster of the Justice League. I glance at him nervously, still not assured that this isn't going to turn into the interrogation of my nightmares; sensing my rather obvious discomfort, he gives me a confident grin and leans down to whisper to me. "Relax. Everything is gonna be fine."

His assurances are much appreciated, but I still look to my sister, silently pleading with her to tell me that I won't go back, if only once more before this meeting gets underway. Even if it's an empty promise, I want to hear it just one more time.

"You're not alone," she says, taking hold of my hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. I let out a breath that I didn't realize I was holding in and allow her to guide me over to the table, directly in front of Nightwing. She releases my hand, a small part of me demands that I reach out and take hold of hers, but I resist the urge.

I've latched onto her enough over the course of the last several hours, it's time for me to show that, while I do value her love and support greatly, I am not a child. I stood alone for five years, I can survive an interview setting with my sister sitting at the table with me; if anything, her presence alone will do wonders for my confidence.

"Nightwing," sister greeted, drawing the attention of the raven-haired leader. He looked up from his conversation with Kid Flash and stood with a friendly smile, nodding to her in return.

"Raven," he replies in turn, before looking directly at me; staring straight into my eyes. He is now the fourth Titan to meet my gaze willingly despite knowing of my powers. I notice that, the instant Nightwing stood to greet my sister, all conversation stopped immediately, all attention was now directed at Nightwing and me. My fingers twitch nervously, I resist the urge to fidget and clasp my hands behind my back in an attempt to occupy them with something. I do my very best to keep my expression neutral, just as I had done prior to the incident last night, showing no emotion, lest he take advantage and use my discomfort against me.

Nightwing stayed silent for a moment, looking me up and down as if trying to commit my appearance to memory. A million thoughts run through my head, each of them more worrying than the last; is he sizing me up for a fight? If so, how quickly can he leap over the table and make the first move? Will I have time to adjust or take a step back? How many paces to the door?

In one fell swoop, he cut through those thoughts and took me completely off guard. "So, you're Harry, I presume?" At my hesitant nod, he continued, speaking in a tone one would use to discuss the weather. "We've been looking for you for some time now."

I blink a couple times in surprise, he's being much more forward than I anticipated. "I've heard," I reply. "Sister – Raven, I mean, told me."

His smile widened a bit, he began to chuckle as if thinking of some private joke. "Yes, I imagine she would've," he says with mirth gesturing to the chair in front of me. "Please, sit and we'll get started."

A quick glance to either side of me shows that this is the only chair on my side of the table. Not unexpected, this was likely arranged so that each member could observe me comfortably, while I must turn a certain way to face each member. I've been subjected to this arrangement once before; by design it places more pressure on the person being questioned. This tactic is often employed during interrogations, but I suppose it wouldn't be too outlandish to think that it would be used for a 'job interview', as Garfield called it.

No, not Garfield, _Beast Boy_. Right now, I'm standing in between Beast Boy and Raven of the Teen Titans, not my sister and the goofy, green changeling I met in the kitchen. While I have no doubt that the two of them will offer me some support, I have to look at them as professionals in this setting.

Beast Boy gives me a light thump on my back as one final gesture of support, and moves to take his own seat beside Speedy, who is still currently piercing a hole through the side of my head with his stare. Sister – Raven follows, keeping watch over me out of the corner of her eye as she joins the green-skinned comedian. Though her expressionless mask is in place, her eyes still flicker between Nightwing and I, watching our interactions with some trepidation.

Fortunately for my sake and her nerves, Nightwing makes no move to attack or incapacitate me after she left my side. Instead, he simply remains standing, waiting for me to take his invitation to sit as though he were a host at a formal event and not the man leading this interview session. At the very least, he's more polite than any interrogator I've encountered before.

I take my seat directly in front of Nightwing, who in turn sits down and calls the meeting to order. "Well, I don't see any point in beating around the bush," he begins in an official sounding tone, looking straight at me. "So, let's get right to it. To recap and bring Harry here up to speed, we've been looking for you since you first arrived in the Los Angeles/Jump City area three weeks ago in order to determine your motives and reasoning behind your actions here and across the continent over the course of the last five years. To clarify, this is _not_ a criminal investigation but this session will be taped for our records. Do you understand everything I've said up to this point?"

I nod once, this is all pretty straightforward at this point. In all fairness, I'm a bit surprised that it took them the full three weeks to find me; perhaps they were forced to make a choice between fighting one of the major players Beast Boy mentioned and finding the new vigilante in town. It's pretty obvious where their priorities would be.

Nightwing paused his opening speech to tap on the table in an odd sequence. The table beeped twice in response and a portion in front of me lit up light a computer screen. I can't help but feel somewhat impressed with the technology at work; touch screen computers such as this are supposedly _very_ complex and expensive. The screen itself displays two red hands, beneath which, the words "Place hands here" flash in red text.

"On the screen, you'll see two handprints," he continues, holding his own hands up and out over his own screen in demonstration. "The computer built into the table is currently set on lie detector function, you'll notice that our version requires no wires, just your hands being placed on the screen itself. The screen is touch sensitive and will monitor your pulse and body temperature, using that to determine whether or not you're telling the truth. Now, you do have the right to refuse to answer a question if it touches on a matter you feel is too personal; for example, I can't ask Kid Flash," he gestures to the red headed speedster, who holds his hand up and waves flippantly. "Where his family lives, or where he went to high school. That's sensitive information. While you do have that right, I strongly advise that you not abuse it, otherwise, we're all just wasting time. If you understand the information I've given you, please respond verbally for our records. If not, please say so now."

"I understand," I reply immediately.

Nightwing nods and smiles again. "Excellent. Before we begin, I must ask for your consent to perform a lie detector test during the course of this session. Please respond verbally for the record."

Previous experiences with lie detector tests and interrogations cause me to hesitate, each memory flashing through my mind. True, this is much different from those in the past: I haven't been handcuffed or wired to any machines, but that doesn't mean that Nightwing can't have me cuffed to the table with the push of a button. I don't know what other technology might have gone into building this thing, how am I to know that a pair of cuffs won't snap into place the moment my hands touch the screen? Just because I don't _see_ them doesn't mean they aren't there.

To his credit, Nightwing waits patiently for my answer, giving me plenty of time to consider my options. I could refuse, I could simply refuse to put my hands on the table or even go through with this damn test. But what would that accomplish? That would just give them more reason to suspect me of doing something illegal, well, other than the vigilantism. That's a given at this point.

The only other option is to give my consent, something I'm _very_ hesitant to do. Giving him, no, giving the entire group my consent to ask me anything about my past… Despite the assurances of both Garfield and my sister, I'm not sure if I _can_. But, if I don't, if I refuse, what then?

Obviously, they wouldn't be so trusting to let me live here if I were to refuse; despite what my sister may have promised me, I doubt that Nightwing would be willing to risk the safety of the team. His first priority is to the team, not some charity case like me, even if my sister is one of his most trusted friends. Either way, I'm in a tough spot.

Either way, I have to make a difficult decision and give something up. So, which is it? Do I let my past stay buried and (likely) remain alone for the foreseeable future? Or do I allow them to know what I've done, where I've been, in exchange for staying with the only family to ever show me positive emotion?

Nightwing _did_ say that I could refuse to answer a question if I felt it was too personal…

"Yes," I reply. He's given me the courtesy of at least some privacy on certain matters; in return, I can at least return the favor by trusting him somewhat. However difficult it may be for me to do so. The fact that, for once, I'm not facing this completely alone is also comforting.

My empathy picks up several different responses from the group: a hint of suspicion is still present, but relief seems to be the most prevalent among them. It seems that they weren't quite sure if things would work out this way, but were hoping to avoid doing it "the hard way", so to speak.

Truth be told, I prefer this to "the hard way" as well; it's much less painful. Then again, I've only ever done it "that hard way" because I've never been given much of a choice. It always ends with me having to escape either a police facility or whatever warehouse I was dragged to while unconscious.

Technically, I could say that I was unconscious at some point because I fell asleep in my sister's room, but I was taken there willingly so I don't think that applies.

"Very well," he says, bringing my attention back to the matter at hand. "To start off, I'm going to ask you a few control questions, so we can get standard readings for when you're telling the truth and when you're lying. So, give me two truths and an obvious lie, okay?" I nod my head in understanding, so he begins. "What color is the sky?"

"Blue," I reply instantly.

"Thank you. What color are your eyes?"

"Green."

Here, Beast Boy decided to throw in his own question, completely destroying any semblance of seriousness. "What color am I?" he asked cheekily. The entire group, minus Nightwing, who simply smirked and shook his head in amusement, groaned and muttered complaints at the grinning, green changeling.

Well, Nightwing did ask for two truths and a lie. "Purple," I answer, to his and Beast Boy's further amusement. Immediately after the word left my mouth, the screen in front of Nightwing began to make shrill, beeping noises.

If anything, I think the sound the machine makes is enough to discourage me from lying; it's more annoying than painful, but I can already tell that this is going to give me a migraine if it keeps going off. My discomfort does not go unnoticed by Nightwing, who hastily presses a button on the screen and silences the machine.

"Sorry about that," he says sheepishly. "I didn't realize the volume was up so high. Let's start off by getting the easy stuff out of the way: What is your full name?"

Previous aliases flash through my mind; I instinctually go through and pick out Lee Evans, the next name in my rotations. I've used this name more than any other, all I did to make it was think of a male name that started with the same letter as the woman who gave birth to me – I refuse to call her my mother, she's done nothing for me. I stop myself, remembering that I've agreed to this lie detector test and that my sister mentioned that she sent out a description of me in her message; the Titans already know my name, this is just a formality question to see if I'll cooperate.

I am not Lee Evans, nor am I any of the other individuals whose names I've taken or altered for my use in the past five years. "Harry," I reply. "My name is Harry Potter." I find that using that man's surname, my surname, still leaves a bad taste in my mouth after all these years. There are some things I'll never get over, I suppose.

He nods in response, the machine has obviously confirmed that I am telling him my real name, something he probably wasn't quite certain of last night. Granted, my sister managed to work it out, but I'll wager that Nightwing wanted to use this test to find out with absolute certainty. "Where were you born?" He asks next.

"London, England," I've never seen any point in lying about that, I still have a slight English accent, so it's rather difficult to come up with a believable lie.

Another nod. Another confirmation. That feeling of relief from the other members is more potent now, my cooperation seems to give them some level of comfort, and perhaps earned me a bit of their approval. I glance over to my sister out of the corner of my eye and she nods and gives me a small, encouraging smile.

"How about your date of birth?"

"The 31st of July, in 1990," After answering, I realize that I'm not sure of the date. Might as well ask now. "What's today's date?"

Cyborg was the one to reply. "August 5th," he helpfully supplies in his deep, baritone voice. My birthday was five days ago.

"Well, happy belated, little man," Kid Flash threw in with a grin. "I'd love to stay on happier topics, but that's for later. Mind if I ask why you started fighting? Not judging you at all, but this isn't exactly an easy life."

The previous tension in the room has returned, with it, a sense of barely hidden anticipation. This was a question rarely asked; normally, I deal with some red-faced officer yelling and demanding, spraying me with spit as he does so, why I beat a mugger down with his own weapon, or something like that. Rarely does anyone ask why I started.

It's somewhat uplifting to know that they're actually interested in that. If anything, it shows a desire to understand my way of thinking, to understand what could've brought me to the conclusion that I had an obligation to fight for the safety of someone I didn't even know, faces I'd never see again.

I remember that night vividly; it's been burned into my memory, replaying over and over again in my dreams. I can remember the scream of terror that ripped from the young woman's throat as she was stabbed in the chest, the coppery smell of blood and the crimson pool that stained the darkened corner of the alley. I never knew her name nor had I ever seen her before, but I remember watching in horror as she was murdered before my eyes, merely a few paces from where I was watching.

And I did nothing to stop it… I was too paralyzed by fear. She was already dead by the time I could move, the fact that I sent her killer to the madhouse with my powers meant nothing.

She was the third person that I have failed.

"I..." I began, feeling like my throat constricted, "I... well... it's..." I wet my lips, feeling as though I was about to burst; but at the same time, I couldn't bring myself to say anything. It was all too much, where do I even start? How do I say that I watched as a woman was killed?

"Harry," My sister's voice breaks me out of my memory, I turn my head to face her, taking note of the concern evident on her face. "Breathe," she instructs me gently. "Close your eyes, take a deep breath and calm down."

I follow her advice, trying desperately to slow my breathing and stop the scene from playing out in my head. I am somewhat successful in the former, not so much in the latter, but it does calm me somewhat; at least to the point that I can organize my thoughts. I became a vigilante that night, the night I made my second promise: never again would I watch helplessly as someone right in front of me died.

Never again would I be frozen in fear as a life was taken in front of me.

I summoned the small bit of comfort that my sister's aid had given me, and began to speak as clearly as I could. "I saw a woman get stabbed to death in an alley. When I was in Montreal, I think," I note absentmindedly.

"I see," Kid Flash replied. Though it was brief, I could feel his fury burning beneath his laid back façade, one that was in danger of being broken if he lost control of his temper. He quickly recomposed himself, smiled and addressed me again. "Having seen someone murdered before, I can sympathize with you. But tell me this, why? People are murdered every day, why did this one push you toward this life?"

"I was angry," I answered quickly. Probably a bit too quickly, but that's not my concern; I've had years to figure out what drove me to fighting. I've had plenty of time to isolate what drove me to that insatiable urge. "I was angry at myself, at the killer, at everything. I didn't feel anything else."

A sense of intrigue hit me from Nightwing, along with a small bit of understanding; almost as if he's able to relate to me on this matter. "Anger is a strong motivator," he mused idly. "But, it can be very destructive as well."

"I'm more than aware of the consequences of losing control, if that's where you're going." The woman's killer ended up in worse shape than any other criminal who had the misfortune of crossing paths with me. That night was the second time the darkness came to life, the second time it answered my call to become weapons.

It was then that I realized that losing myself to my rage could have terrible repercussions; I very much doubt that man will ever be able to move again, let alone live without being hooked up to a life support machine. By the time I regained control of my powers, it was too late; I had broken him beyond repair. If there was ever something to drive home the fact that I needed control – aside from the incident at the Dursleys' house – that was it.

To my somewhat pleasant surprise, he didn't go on a long, irksome tangent about the importance of controlling my anger, or lecture me about how giving into my anger would lead me down a darkened path, nor did he leap to his feet, demanding to know if I had been using my anger as an excuse for rationalizing my sadistic urge to hurt others – that one was an old favorite of past interrogators. Nightwing just nodded once and began to speak, but someone beat him to the punch.

"I'm not so sure this doesn't deserve _some_ attention," for the first time since the start of the session, Speedy spoke. "Granted, I'm no saint either and I don't personally have anything against you, kid," I feel mildly annoyed at being called 'kid' by him in such a manner, but I stay silent. "But I have a real problem letting a kid with powers such as yours run around unchecked. Don't take it personal, it's just something to think about."

"I agree with Speedy," Supergirl seconded, drawing my attention away from the red haired archer. "You might mean well, but that doesn't change the fact that your powers are quite dangerous, especially since they seem to be tied to your emotions similarly to Raven's."

If Nightwing was annoyed at the interruption, he didn't let it show; I would even go as far as saying that not a single muscle on his face twitched as he waited for his teammates to finish. Once he was certain that the floor was his again, he spoke in an even tone. "The volatile nature of his powers will be taken into consideration once this session is concluded, as we've _already_ discussed," here, I noticed that several of the Titans actually flinched away from their stern leader, intimidated by him. They were intimidated by a normal man who had no powers to speak of. "I, personally, can't say much for his powers, that's not my area of expertise. Raven is our demon and magic specialist, so I'm inclined to listen to her advise on this matter; unless, of course, either of you can offer an alternative?"

Supergirl matched his stern look with a defiant glare of her own. "There's always Zatanna –"

"Under no circumstances will I allow that woman to come anywhere near my brother," my sister hissed, leaping to her feet. Even when I snapped at her last night, her anger wasn't anything like this. This was pure fury, the likes of which one reserved for a person whom they harbored a grudge against.

Stop and think about this for a moment: This 'Zatanna' slighted Raven, _daughter of Trigon_, so badly that she now bore a grudge. Either this woman was incredibly brave having stood up to a considerably powerful half-demon, or she was unbelievably stupid for having incurred her wrath. Personally, I can't say, as I wasn't actually present at the time, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say it wasn't Zatanna's best idea.

Angering demons is always a bad thing. You can check any mythological source from any culture; the results are _never_ pretty. Demons take vengeance to an entirely different level and I would imagine that my sister – despite her reputation as the calm, cold and calculating sorceress of the Titans – is no exception. Especially if the mere mention of her name elicited such an animated response.

Needless to say, I don't think I'll be asking if I can meet this Zatanna woman anytime in the near future. Figuring out how she managed to incite my sister's temper is something I'll do later. Like, when she doesn't look like she wants to go find the woman and inflict pain on her.

Fortunately for everyone's immediate health, my sister has years of practice in separating her emotions from her powers, so we are in no danger at the moment. True, I can indeed feel her darkness towering over everyone present – I can only wonder if the others feel it – but it isn't as threatening toward me as it is to the others present; as if her darkness has positioned itself between Supergirl and Speedy and myself, acting as a protector. I don't detect any harmful intent yet, but that probably hinges on how insistent Supergirl is with her suggestions.

The fact that both Beast Boy _and_ Cyborg were making frantic "cut it out" gestures with their hands is more than enough to tell me that she is currently treading in _very_ dangerous water and should consider an immediate change of subject. That change in subject would come with a level of subtlety and grace, only a Kryptonian could manage.

"Raven, sit down, Kara, shut up," Or rather, the grace and subtlety only a Kryptonian _clone_ could manage. Superboy looked annoyed – well, more so than he had at the start of this meeting – with the exchange, as if he'd seen this play out many times before whenever someone mentioned Zatanna in my sister's presence. He crossed his arms over his chest and matched his cousin's glare with one of his own, as if daring her to challenge him.

Supergirl had no intention of backing down, even if it was from her own cousin. "Don't order me around, _little cousin_," she snapped, adding extra emphasis on the last two words to remind him who had the higher authority – in their family, that is. "I just made a suggestion, I didn't say that we should toss him out of the Cave and wash our hands of him!"

He simply shrugged in response, not paying her rising temper any mind. "You're the one who brought up Zatanna, despite the past history she and certain members have."

"Let's get back to the point," the green skinned girl said, breaking her long silence at last. "The issue isn't our personal relationships with various League members, rather, the issue is whether or not Harry can control his powers. If not, how is he going to learn control?"

"From me," my sister answered firmly, earning nods of agreement from several others.

Nightwing chose this moment to speak up. "I agree with Raven; she is most familiar with the nature of Harry's powers as they are, in essence, the same as hers. Having someone else attempt to train him would yield poor results." At least someone is looking at this logically.

"How can you be sure?" Speedy pushed. "How can you be so certain that _only_ Raven would be able to help him? I'm fairly sure that we could pick another magic user and have them figure it out."

"Our powers are _not_ limited to sorcery," my sister snapped back. "Sorcery is merely one ability the two of us possess; you have not taken into account his empathy, his phasing and teleportation abilities, his shadow manipulation, telekinesis, et cetera! And even if you had, magic doesn't work that way! You cannot take one variation of magic and mix it with another without risking backlash similar to a chemical reaction!"

_That_ I did not know. I guess that means I won't have to bother with learning the branch of magic that requires a wand; the exact name of it escapes my memory, so I'll just call it "wand magic" from now on. Oddly enough, I don't particularly mind not being able to use it. I don't fancy being disarmed by some means and being unable to use magic simply because I don't have a stick in my hands. At least with the abilities that my sister has listed, I have some variety and can adapt to fit my needs. At least using my darkness, I always have something to defend myself.

Getting back on track, Speedy shut his mouth and held his hands up in a surrendering gesture, deferring to my sister's years of knowledge on the subject. Again, most, if not all, of the remaining Titans nodded in agreement with the resident half-demon sorceress, even Supergirl looked a bit sheepish about suggesting another magic user to train me.

Though, to be fair, I don't think I'd want to be trained by Zatanna if she shares as much animosity with my sister as her recent outburst indicates.

"Now that we have answered that question," Starfire began in a voice that seemed to hold an odd mixture of strength and childlike innocence; as if she were somewhat new to the way the world worked. Though, the fact that she is from another planet would have something to do with all that. "Perhaps we should continue?"

"Yes, thank you, Star," Nightwing replied cordially, receiving a smile from the orange skinned woman and a snort of laughter from Beast Boy's direction. He shot a glare in the direction of the green changeling, who tried his best to look innocent. No one was fooled. "Anyways," he grumbled, turning back to me. "Does anyone else have a question, or should I continue?"

"I have a couple," Cyborg said. "We've talked about your anger, the feeling that drove you to fight. So tell me this, what can you give us that shows that you've been in control of your actions? That is, can you tell us that your actions in the last five years have been made through rational though, not in blind rage?"

Two interesting questions in one sitting, I may actually begin to warm up to them, even if they decide that they don't want me to be a part of the team. "My anger towards the woman being stabbed drove me to punish the man who killed her," I answered. "It ended that night; the anger corresponding to that incident, I mean. Since then, I've focused on controlling my anger so that I don't lose control. I still feel it when I see a crime committed, that's what drives me to act. But I don't lose myself to it; I don't give into my rage, which would drive me to unleash the full brunt of my powers on the individual. I use the one power I have a semblance of control over, the rest is just hand to hand."

"Fair enough. But the power you mentioned, I assume you're referring to your 'fear stare', as some have called it?" He asks, to which I nod in response. "Don't you think that's a bit excessive though? Literally breaking someone by having them live out their worst fear?"

"I don't use that power easily, nor do I use it with any feeling of pleasure derived from their pain. I use it only after considering the consequences of _not_ doing so: do I let the person cause another pain? Or do I use my powers to stop him and save his victim, knowing that in doing so I condemn him to a life of absolute terror?" Cyborg mulls this over in his head, nodding appreciatively at the rationale, before beckoning me to continue on. "I would prefer to use other means to incapacitate, but, sometimes, there isn't another choice; whether that be due to his weapons or the malicious intent I feel through my empathy varies with the crime and the person committing it."

The machine stays silent, as it has throughout the entire session. That feeling of suspicion has given way to something new: relief. Relief that I am, in fact, a rational individual, instead of some monstrous, demon child who preys on the fears of those with corrupted souls – or some similar rot. The majority of them – excluding my sister, as she is likely biased in my favor – are coming to that realization; that, despite my brutality, the stories they have likely heard or read are incorrect in stating that I am nothing more than a common vigilante looking for thrills. Oh, I am a vigilante, no doubt there, but my reasoning for my actions is different.

My actions are not governed by feelings of abject rage or thrill seeking tendencies. I rationalize my actions by fighting against crimes against a certain code of universal laws; an unwritten set of laws that we know are bad to violate in the very nature of the crimes they refer to. Rape, murder, thievery, these are the most well known crimes against this unwritten code. They are also the most frequently violated.

My anger stems from the knowledge that someone has knowingly and willingly violated these laws. They knowingly commit these crimes against their own species, because they feel that they can rationalize it. Thieves will say "I needed the money", rapists will say "She/He was asking for it", and murderers will give varying versions of "He/She deserved it."

Of course, that means that I have to look at my actions and ask if I am guilty of the same pitfall. Do I rationalize doing something horrible by giving a variation of that phrase "they deserve it"?

Yes, I am. I have knowingly and willingly used my powers to break the minds of many men and women, each of them criminals. I just admitted it to everyone present, and they are likely thinking along the same lines as me. I myself have violated the universal laws I referenced, rationalizing my actions by saying that I do it to protect, not because I want something in return or want to see someone in pain.

The Teen Titans likely know and understand this, as they chose to take similar actions the day they chose this life. Each of us chose to bear the weight of the knowledge that we would inflict pain and suffering on others to protect those who couldn't defend themselves. None of us are angels or saints; we are all sinners, some of us more than others.

In case you're wondering, I count myself in the "more" category.

Now, they seem more interested in my logical reasoning, which, as I've said, is a change from my typical interrogation experience. They aren't pulling out newspaper clippings or police reports and asking what happened to cause me to beat one person with his own crowbar, or why I broke a man's knee, they're asking why I decide to do anything about the crimes I witness. They're interested in my reasoning and my origins.

My origins… I can feel my heart beginning to pound in my chest like a jackhammer. That day at school, that night when the house collapsed, Aunt Petunia forcing me to read the letter over and over, learning _their_ names, finding them and seeing them, it all plays through my mind in a blur. Everything before I ended up in Montreal, lying exhausted in some alleyway, waiting for my strength to return after using my powers accidentally.

"Harry?" Cyborg calls, trying to bring me back to Earth. He succeeds in jolting me out of my memories, I blink rapidly and shake my head, trying to clear out the fog and return to the room. "Are you still with us?" He asks, a touch of concern evident in his voice.

"Y-Yes," I reply, stammering a bit. Damn it, my mask is slipping again. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my sister looking alarmed; she must be picking up on my anxiety with her own empathy. Wonderful. Now, I'm worrying her _and_ I'm letting my emotions show in front of the Titans _again_.

"Your heart rate is spiking pretty high," he notes. "You were fine just a moment ago, something on your mind?"

"No, just..." Just what? Just the memory of my relatives' screams of terror as their house collapsed on them? Just the memory of the discovery of how I came to be in their care originally? "Just… a memory," I reply rather lamely.

"A memory?" He parrots quizzically. "Of a fight, perhaps? Or was it something from further back?"

I shake my head in response, frantically trying to rid myself of the unwanted memories of my early life, silently pleading that he ask any other question, anything but the one that I _know_ is coming next.

But, he still has to ask it. "Would you mind sharing it?" He asked gently. "Talking about it might help."

Again, I just shake my head, averting my gaze to the floor in front of me. I close my eyes, trying to block everything out. The memories, the room, the incessant beeping of that damn machine as it detects my heart pounding within my chest. A voice cuts through everything, the visions leave me and suddenly that annoying machine seems to go silent.

"Cyborg, I think it may be best that we stay away from that subject for the time being," Nightwing interjects, once again using his business tone. "Per Raven's message last night, our friend here likely feels uncomfortable discussing his past with… unfamiliar faces."

"Nightwing," Speedy began. "We need to know –"

"His heart rate is spiking too high," Cyborg growled back. "We gave our word that we wouldn't push him if he cooperated."

"I know, but there are still a lot of blanks to fill!" That did it; as soon as the red headed archer spoke, I felt my control over my powers slip ever so slightly, but it was more than enough. I winced as the sounds of the overhanging light fixtures shattering echoed through the hall, drawing the conversation to an immediate halt as the shards of glass fell to the floor.

"This session is over!" My sister snarled in fury, the likes of which none present had expected from the usually stoic woman. She was at my side almost instantly, kneeling down and wrapping her arms around me in a comforting embrace. "Harry, listen to me," she says, changing to a more gentle, soothing tone as she consoled me. "We're done; no more questions!"

I want to believe her, I want to find comfort in her words, but they do nothing to stop my rising panic, nothing to stop the unbidden memories from playing out in my mind. I try to control my breathing as she suggested earlier, but my breath comes in short, erratic pants, my heart races as the adrenaline begins to kick in. Suddenly, the screen my hands rest upon shatters, embedding several shards of glass into my skin.

I let out a gasp as the pain registers, pulling my hands back and clutching them together in an attempt to hide the injury from everyone. My sister removes her hands from my shoulders and takes hold of my writs, turning them up so that she can survey the cuts and determine how deep the shards had gone. Her eyes narrow slightly at the sight of blood trickling down my hands, the second wound she's seen on me in two days.

By what I'm detecting via empathy, that's twice more than she deems acceptable. She begins muttering something under her breath, if it weren't for the fact that she were so close to me, I would've completely missed out on the words themselves. "Azarath Metrion Zinthos." Gibberish, I though, before I noticed that her hands began to glow with the same white light as last night and the cuts on my hand sealed shut.

Just as the wound on my shoulder had been repaired last night, not even a scratch remains. My hands are as unblemished as they were before the screen shattered. Well, unblemished except for my previously acquired scars.

With her task complete, my sister cupped my chin in her hand, lifting my head so that I was forced to meet her eyes. "Harry," she began once again. "I'm going to try to help you calm down, but you have to trust me, you have to let me in for it to work."

Let her in? Let her in where – oh.

She wants me to let her _in_, referring to my mind. Specifically, she wants my permission to use her powers to manipulate my emotions and stop my powers from running wild. Needless to say, the thought of someone manipulating me in any way is _not_ comforting; in fact, it's quite frightening! My mind races with the implications she's made, coming up with the worst case scenario possible: if she can manipulate my emotions, what's to say she hasn't already?

Has she?

Just thinking along those lines causes my control to slip even further, several more computer screens shatter and spark as my powers rip destroy them. I hear the sounds of chairs screeching against the floor and the Titans leaping away from the table, trying to escape the line of fire.

She moves her hands up so that her index and middle fingers are touching my temples and presses her forehead up against mine, all while matching my gaze. "Look at me," she whispers soothingly. "Block everything out except the sound of my voice. Breathe slowly and relax; think of this as your first lesson in meditation, just clear your mind."

Clear my mind? Easier said than done, but I try. I close my eyes tight and take deep, slow breaths, trying to reign in my powers, trying to force them to bend to my will once again. But to no avail! Trying frantically to bring my powers under control while simultaneously trying to calm myself down just sends me even further into panic!

I'm messing everything up! I can't bring my powers under control, I can't calm myself down, I can't even give a verbal answer to Cyborg asking about what sent me into a panic in the first place! I'm a failure; I've always been a failure! I failed to save the Dursleys, I failed to save the woman in Montreal, and I've failed my sister now!

No matter how hard I've tried; no matter how many people I've saved over the years, I'm still a failure. Even though I've found the one family member who hasn't rejected me, I'm still the miserable boy who slept in a cupboard. No matter how hard I've tried to forget it, I'm still stuck in the past.

"Harry," she chides me gently. "I said clear your mind, you can't do that if you're worrying about everything around you." She has a point; the more I think about the problems I'm facing, the more stressed I seem to get. "Think of nothing," she continues. "Clear your mind, forget your troubles and fears for a moment."

Clear my mind. Clear my mind. Blank everything out, forget my fears, think of nothing. For me, this is rather difficult; I've spent most of my life rambling to myself about the strangeness of the human rationale, or analyzing the various human relationships in an attempt to understand how normal people live their lives. Rarely have I ever achieved this "inner peace" while conscious. I can't do it alone. I can't.

But I don't have to do it alone.

Breathe, block everything out, think of nothing, and hear nothing but her voice. Let her in, let her help. Let her in. Let her in. "Help me," I whisper so only she can hear. "Please."

She nods once, again muttering those words under her breath. Immediately, I feel myself beginning to relax, all thoughts of my previous failures, my panicked state of mind seems to be replaced by a feeling of emotional numbness; as if I can't feel anything. I can't even begin to panic at the loss of emotion. Nothing.

I absentmindedly notice that my powers are no longer destroying computer screens or sending other objects flying around the room. Logically, I know that is a good thing, but I don't feel pleased, I don't even feel any sort of relief. My powers aren't going out of control anymore, no one is in any danger, but I still feel numb.

"Harry," my sister calls my attention back to her. "Stay relaxed, I had to render you emotionally numb for a moment, just so you can regain control of your powers." That does make sense. Instead of simply sending me into another emotional state and hoping for the best, she took away my emotions altogether for a moment to remove the catalyst for my powers. I nod in understanding, and she continues. "I'm going to make you feel calm now, alright? Just relax and keep breathing slowly."

This new feeling is much different than being rendered numb; I feel as though I'm being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold night, I feel utterly content. While I know that my sister has sort of forced me into this more peaceful, sedated state, I have to admit that it feels wonderful on many levels. Simply feeling at peace with myself for perhaps the first time in years would be more than enough to make me happy, but the fact that she helped, the fact that she made it right and was able to prevent me from hurting anyone, that she could prevent me from being hurt, was amazing.

Yes, she manipulated my emotions. Yes, this feeling of calmness is unnatural for me, but that's the point: she wanted me to be at peace, she wanted to help me feel calm so much that she was willing to use her powers, but only after telling me first. She asked first, she didn't just use her powers to make me feel a certain way, as she very easily could've done.

She could've easily made me feel this from the very start in order to make me tell them everything about me, everything about my past, but she didn't. She kept her promise from last night: she didn't make me talk about anything that I didn't feel comfortable discussing. Based on what Nightwing referenced, she took it a step further and convinced the Titans to extend the same courtesy to me.

Satisfied that I wasn't about to go into another panic attack, my sister stood to face Nightwing again, leaving one hand resting on my shoulder. "We're done," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"We're done," he repeated in complete agreement, without any hesitation. "Maybe you should take Harry somewhere quiet and let him cool down for a bit," he suggested. "He's helped us enough."

She nodded once in reply, before turning back to me and gesturing for me to follow her out. I rise without hesitation and fall into step with her as she guides me towards the door, my calm state further amplified by the fact that she leaves her arm wrapped around my shoulders, her right hand resting on my right shoulder, as a show of support. The door slides open with an audible hiss as we approach, granting us passage to the hallway and away from the remaining members of the Titans' roster.

**LINE BREAK**

Nightwing breathed a sigh of relief as the half-demon siblings left the room. That could've gone a lot worse if not for Raven's warning message last night; if she hadn't let the team know that Harry had gone nearly catatonic when confronted on issues regarding his past, they could've had a major disaster on their hands.

Even knowing what they were dealing with, it still blew up in their faces. If anything, this meeting made it a top priority to find the proper way to handle Harry long term.

At this point, he wasn't sure how the team as a whole would vote regarding Harry's enlistment, but he had his hopes that they would give him a chance. He didn't need to be a psychiatrist to know that the raven-haired boy was attached to his sister after such a short time; a trait exhibited by abused children when they interact with someone who shows them affection of some sort.

Now, he had to do his best to stay focused and objective; he had to put his personal feelings and try to look at Harry as a possible member of the team, not merely a victim of years of abuse. Of course, he did have an ace up his sleeve to help with the matter. As much as he disliked the idea initially, there was really only one man he could turn to when it came to getting the full story on someone. There was only one man he could trust to take and analyze all information thoroughly and properly weigh the good with the bad.

He turned to look at a shadowed corner of the Assembly Hall, gazing silently for a moment before speaking. "Now that we've heard his story," he addressed the remaining Titans while still facing away from them. "It's time to decide whether or not to consider him as a member of the team. However, there is still one more person who I've called upon to give us further information. He'll present that information now."

The remaining Titans followed his gaze to the shadowed corner of the room, each wondering what their leader could possibly be staring at. He wasn't normally one who tended to stare off in the distance when discussing a pressing issue; something was drawing his attention.

Or rather, someone had drawn his attention. Someone who truly needed no introduction; his name and appearance were feared throughout the criminal underground and even by some members of his own organization. The man who became a legend to the people he protected, and a nightmare to those he waged war with.

The tall, shadowy figure of a man stepped forth, pausing to survey each individual from behind his cowl, before finally stopping on his former protégé.

"Listen up," the man spoke in his deep, gravelly voice. "I'm only going through this once."

The Batman had made his presence known, at last.

**Chapter End**

**Before you ask, one of Raven's abilities is to manipulate others' emotions, including rendering them emotionally numb. So, yes, that is one of her powers in canon.**

**Review and let me know what you think.**


	7. A Darkened Soul

**Disclaimer:**__**I do not own the **_**Harry Potter**_** series or DC comics, nor do I claim any rights to their characters.**

**One small bit of housekeeping to mention: recently, my beta Heliosion posted up a story in the Young Justice section titled "The Prodigal Son". The fic is set in an alternate universe and revolves around Superboy. Check it out, I highly recommend it, he's taken it a very unique direction. Maneyan and I have been doing the beta reading for it.**

**Chapter 7: A Darkened Soul**

Once more I find myself back in my sister's room, wrapped in a sense of calmness that I know is artificial, but I prefer this to my previous state of mind; even more so considering the fact that my powers aren't destroying light fixtures or computer monitors, or worse, attacking those around me. The main person I'm concerned with is my sister.

I have no doubt that she could defend herself and subdue me, that isn't the issue, not in the least. My guilt is the issue. I hold myself responsible for allowing my powers to run rampant in the Assembly Hall, if they had targeted her instead of one of the lights or computers, I don't know if I'd be able to forgive myself.

As much as this state of calmness has helped my psyche, I still feel a bit dismayed that my lack of control over both my emotions and my powers was put on display for the Titans to see, even more so that my lack of control was shown in front of my sister. I wanted so much to be helpful, I wanted so much to make a good impression on the Titans; for once, I dared to hope that I would find peers among the famous (or infamous, depending on which politician or pundit you listened to) superhero group.

I wanted so much to impress her by staying in control and being able to discuss at least some of my past. Instead, I lost control, destroyed several light fixtures and computer monitors and had to be escorted out of the room by my sister; if not for the strength of this artificial calmness that she's implanted in me, I'd be absolutely mortified.

I very much doubt that she's too impressed with any of this, with my lack of control. While she's been adamant that she will support me and care for me, I don't think that she was too pleased when we left the room; yes, a significant portion of her ire was directed at her teammates for the line of questioning and the pressure that a couple of them placed on me, but there is a chance that a portion of her irritation is due to my ineptitude with my powers.

"Sit," she says, pulling the desk chair out and turning it around to face the middle of the room, then gesturing for me to take my place in it. I comply without hesitation, wondering exactly what she has to say to me. Briefly, I entertain the thought that she's about to tell me that my control over my powers is worse than she feared, which would likely mean that she has to put some sort of restraint on me until I'm able to control them to her satisfaction, but I dismiss the notion.

Overanalyzing the situation often leads to me carrying the thought to its worst possible conclusion, as was made evident in the Assembly Hall just a few moments ago. I need to think rationally, I need to utilize this feeling of calmness as a tool to aid my attempts to think things through without having another bout of anxiety.

Thus far, my sister has given no such indication that either my powers or I will be restrained through various means; making assumptions that she will is foolish. Logically, she could have very easily done so last night while I was asleep, yet she hasn't. She brought me into her home, _the Teen Titans' home_, brought me into her room (which seems to be her private space, if Garfield's comments at breakfast are anything to go by) and, finally, she defended me during the course of the hearing, even going as far as to declare the session over when it became apparent that I was uncomfortable with some of the questions.

Thus far, she's had plenty of chances to hurt me, to betray my trust, but she hasn't. Either she's an incredibly good actress or she's sincere. Taking my empathy into consideration, I haven't been picking up any sort of emotional response that indicates that the former is true; it's difficult to completely hide or fake emotions from my empathy, there is always at least _some_ sort of feeling, however fleeting, from a person as events play out.

Her emotions haven't seemed to be directed towards me in any sort of negative light, save for when I snapped at her last night, though that was only because she wanted me to listen before jumping to conclusions. In fairness, she was right; once I start to lose control of my emotions I tend to let them dictate my actions. It's something that I need to work on going forward.

Back on the subject at hand, I take my place in the offered seat, waiting patiently for her to begin. She doesn't speak immediately; she hesitates, as if silently considering her next words or actions. She opens her mouth, but closes it, shaking her head and muttering to herself. The subject is apparently either difficult to address or difficult for her to talk about, possibly even both, given the fact that neither of us have experience with sibling interactions.

Discussing issues such as this will probably be a bit awkward for both of us, at least for a while. I'm not exactly open with my feelings (except for my little breakdowns last night and this morning), and I have a suspicion that she isn't either.

How wonderfully ironic; I've finally found the one family member in the world that loves me and wants to help me and she has the same communication issues that I do. Though, to be fair, this is definitely a step up from being shouted at for being a "freak", thrown headfirst into a small cupboard under the stairs and locked inside for the rest of the week.

Still, this rather tense, awkward silence is making me more curious, despite the presence of this artificial calmness that I'm still experiencing. I would imagine that I would feel a deep sense of foreboding if she weren't currently manipulating my emotions, preventing me from having another lapse of control. If the subject at hand is that difficult for my sister to even _begin_ to address, I can't imagine that it's anything that can be easily resolved.

Naturally, I let my curiosity get the better of me and I break the silence. "Is something wrong?" Not exactly the most subtle way of asking, but I am _very_ curious as to what vexes her so much.

"Nothing," she replies with a shake of her head. "Nothing is wrong. I'm just not sure where to begin."

"The beginning?" I offer, making it a point to show that I'm ready to hear whatever it is she has to say.

She quirks an eyebrow at me, giving a small, amused smile. "Fair enough," she says with a nod. "For the most part, you handled the hearing well. Better than I expected, actually."

Despite her control over my emotions, I frown slightly. "I still messed up in the end," I note with disappointment evident in my tone; yet another failure on my part.

"Yes, you did lose control," she admits. "But a significant portion of the blame falls on the way Speedy conducted himself. I warned them not to press you too hard on certain issues, but it seems that he either didn't care to listen or he forgot due to his suspicion."

"Is he often like that?"

"Yes, he has his reasons for it, but that's his story to tell," she replies as she begins to pace in front of me. "While I can understand his want for more information to a point, I'm still not too pleased with how he acted towards you."

I watch her as she paces, back and forth, still uncomfortable despite my desire to hear her concerns. Does my lack of control concern her that much? Or is it something else? Is it something in relation to my lack of control? Is it really _that_ troubling?

Obviously so, as my sister is still having difficulty vocalizing her thoughts, instead continuing to pace, trying to work out her own nerves before speaking. I notice that, as she walks, she mutters to herself, in a voice so low I can't hear it, while twiddling her fingers every now and again – similar to how I have a tendency to wring my hands or grab my wrists behind my back when I'm feeling stressed.

"There's no easy way to say this," she begins at last. "It was difficult enough to learn about for me, I never even considered the possibility that I'd be giving this lesson to another, to my own brother. Of course," she noted absentmindedly. "I only just met you last night, so that's expected, I suppose."

"That makes sense," I admit, smiling slightly. "Even without intending to, I still manage to make things difficult."

She stops pacing for a moment to frown and give me a stern look. "I would prefer it if you didn't talk like that. You really need to work on your self-esteem."

"I was trying to make light of the situation."

"Even so, I would prefer if you didn't do so at your own expense," she chides. "Based on your… tirade last night, I'd say you've done quite enough of that for one lifetime."

Unable to formulate a suitable response, I simply shrug. I can't really argue the point, but I doubt that I'll be able to just stop instantly, as though flipping a switch. I may be half-demon, but I'm also half-human, therefore, I'm a creature of habit; that being said, I've made it a habit to make such remarks about myself, whether in an attempt to distract myself from an issue or during one of my depressed monologues. And, like most habits, I suspect that this will be a rather difficult one to break.

Fortunately, this doesn't seem to be sister's main concern, for now, at least. She's still preoccupied with… well, I'm not exactly sure what yet. All I know is that it has something to do with me, that she had to come to terms with the same issue at some point in her life and it apparently has something to do with my loss of composure in the Assembly Hall.

Her pacing has begun once again, however, it seems as though she's finally mustered her courage and decided to vocalize her thoughts. "I'll admit, I was worried about whether or not you could control your powers well enough," she begins. "But, I didn't expect it to be this bad; not that you're to blame," she adds hastily. "You had no one to guide you along, no one to show you control at a young age, as I did, even though, in hindsight, I don't particularly like the method used."

"What method was that?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Emotional isolation," she replied darkly. "The people of Azarath passed a law: No one was allowed to show me any sort of emotion, fearing that the slightest emotional outburst on my part would unleash my demon side and bring our father into their world. Even Arella, my mother, was forced to live on the opposite side of the community, so neither of us would be tempted to violate the law."

I can't help but stare in shock; while she may not have been subjected to the physical and verbal abuse as I was, what she suffered was comparable. She was met with isolation and fear, equally as hurtful to a child as ostracization and hatred. Our beginnings were different, yet so similar.

Neither of us were shown love or any sort of affection initially, instead we were met with different forms of isolation; her due to the fear of the people of Azarath, me due to the scorn and rumors spread by my relatives.

Despite all of that, despite our dark heritage, we both ended up choosing to help others. I know how I got to this point, my decision was influenced by the horrors of watching a woman get stabbed to death, my sister's reasoning, however, remains a mystery to me. As curious as I am, this is probably not the time to ask, as there are currently more pressing matters to address.

"Would I be safe to assume that you aren't planning to utilize that method with me?" I ask.

"Absolutely not!" She replies almost immediately, looking appalled that I would even suggest the idea. "That _won't_ happen!"

Seems as if I've misspoken again, though I had a feeling that asking such a question might upset her. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to make sure that I was following along, so to speak."

My sister's eyes soften slightly; she begins to relax and turns to face me fully. "Very well. I apologize for snapping, but, as you might guess, the thought brings up some rather unpleasant memories."

"Understandable," I reply calmly, feeling no fear of her ire as I did previously, both due to her manipulation of my emotions to prevent my anxiety and that I've come to trust that she won't physically harm me just because of a brief flash of anger or irritation. "Then how do you suggest showing me control? Meditation?"

"That's one method that you'll be using," she answers with a nod. "But not today. There is a faster method, but I hesitate to expose you to it so soon after you've learned of our heritage. Before we even discuss it, I must warn you that it likely won't be pleasant, if your emotional and mental state are anything to go by."

"What does that have to do with the nature of the method? Other than the fact that my powers are somewhat tied to my emotions, of course."

At first, she doesn't respond verbally, she simply reaches out toward the desk with her right hand, her eyes begin to glow pure white as her powers come to life. I turn to see what she's reaching for, and find that the black, handheld mirror is floating in midair, floating to sister's outstretched hand. As her fingers closed around the handle, I recall that I previously thought it to be nothing more than a mirror, a simple, handheld mirror.

But that doesn't seem to be the case; if the fact that my sister is summoning it to her now, when we're supposed to be discussing the method she plans to use to help me control my powers, and the incident that both she and Garfield mentioned earlier, this is no ordinary mirror. In fact, my sister referenced another incident involving the mirror and Garfield, one further back, judging by her tone and emotional state when it was brought up, the fact that he nearly repeated his past mistake caused her distress.

What is it then? What sort of mirror can help me control my powers, but also causes my sister such distress at the same time?

"You seem confused," she notes dryly, though I can detect a very minute sense of amusement in her voice.

"I don't think 'confused' begins to describe it," I reply in much the same tone, minus any trace of humor. "A mirror?"

She raises a single eyebrow in response, lips quirking upward in further amusement at my confusion and reply. "Yes and no. It's indeed a mirror, but it serves another purpose; it acts as a portal into my soul, something I use to help with my own meditation and control."

"I see," I say slowly, not fully understanding how this is supposed to help me. "Not to dismiss the idea, but how will this help with _my_ control issues if it's a portal into _your_ soul?"

"Simple, really," she replies. "I'll just make it a portal into your soul."

When she says it like that, she makes it sound as if this is as easy as walking. Though, I suppose it is that easy in her point of view. She's been doing this demonic sorceress stuff for quite some time now, so it really should be no surprise that she's done this sort of thing before.

That all sounds very nice in theory, but is it _really_ that simple? She's talking about making a portal into my soul, of all things; that doesn't sound like this is something she can just do with a snap of her fingers. Unless I'm mistaken, messing around with souls is supposed to involve very complicated magic or, in our case, very precise use of our inner darkness.

"How – "

"I can break the connection to my soul and create a link to yours," she interrupts, already calling upon her darkness. I notice a black, shadowy aura beginning to surround the mirror, which shakes violently in her hand as she breaks the connection between the mirror and her own soul. A murky black ooze seems to swirl behind the glass, I gasp in surprise as four narrow red eyes open and seem to glare at the two of us from within the mirror.

"Relax," she chides gently, still focused on her work. "It won't take much longer, but I need you to stay focused."

"Focused on what?" I ask, admittedly sounding more than a bit naïve.

"Sorry, I'm getting a bit too far ahead. I need you to clear your mind again, this time though, I need you to focus on tearing down the mental and emotional barriers you've created for this to work."

"What will that accomplish? I thought you said the mirror was supposed to be a portal into my soul, not my head."

"True," she nods. "But your emotions still have an effect on whether or not I can successfully link the mirror to your soul. In order for this to work, you have to undo years of locking away your own emotions; you have to let yourself in."

That seems… quite philosophical. I have to 'let myself in'? What in the world is that supposed to mean? Sure, I have made it a habit to bottle up my emotions to a ridiculous degree, but I have a pretty good reason for that.

But, really, that doesn't mean that I don't feel at all; I just… avoid it like a bloody plague. Can you really blame me? The last time I let my emotions run wild, a man was nearly torn apart by what seemed to be tentacles of shadows; granted, the man was a murderer, he'd just stabbed a woman to death, but that didn't exactly justify me letting my powers go out of control and nearly rip him apart.

So, needless to say, I have a bit – well, a lot, really – of a problem with being honest with how I feel, even with myself at times. I try to lie to myself and say that I don't care, even though I might be absolutely livid somewhere deep down, in whatever mental cage I've managed to lock my anger. I pretend that my living situation, my constant state of loneliness doesn't bother me, because I am obviously destined to be an outcast due to my 'freakishness', despite the fact that, somewhere deep down, I've always wanted to feel like I belong, I've always wanted a place where I could fit in.

Is that what this is about? Admitting to myself that, yes, I can control my powers _and_ feel emotion at the same time? I suppose it would be nice to let myself feel again, or just feel _a bit_. Other than a few rare emotional outbursts, including those within the last day or so, I really haven't let much of anything out. It's all been buried deep down, locked away for so long.

I probably don't need to explain how difficult it is to try to undo five years self-conditioning myself to feel as little emotion as possible, but I'll say it: it's like trying to dig through a brick wall with my fingernails.

But, if it's absolutely necessary, I guess I can try it. I look at the face of the mirror, into the swirling mass of black shadows that seem to spin behind the glass, and try to concentrate on willingly opening up; easier said than done. As much as I've examined the way people around me react whenever I'm nearby, I haven't done much in the way of actual self-examination. I haven't done any of the 'looking inward' or 'finding my center' or any of that meditation stuff that I hear about. There wasn't a reason for it. My opinion of myself has mostly been based on what was said directly to me when I lived in England; that I'm an abnormal, freakish little boy.

I stare into the mirror, trying to picture a door that opens into my soul, allowing us access, allowing me the chance to find myself within. I try to focus on breaking down my wall of false apathy, pushing past my own self-loathing and searching for myself; searching for my real feelings and desires. I close my eyes as I throw all my energy, all of my focus, into unlocking this metaphysical door to my soul.

"Good," I hear my sister say, her voice sounding as though it's coming from a distance. "You've succeeded in unlocking the door, now comes the hard part: opening it and allowing the two of us in."

Oh, goodie, it gets more difficult from here. I'd hoped that she would be able to give me a bit more help after the unlocking portion of this ordeal; I wonder if this is her trying to teach me through experience or if it's something she literally can't help me with.

Then again, this could be a chance for me to prove to her that I'm capable of doing things myself, that I don't need her to hold my hand through every little ordeal I might encounter.

Do I want her to be a constant fixture in my life? Yes. But, I don't want her to think of me as a helpless, little child. While it's rather apparent that I don't know much about social interactions, I'd still like to think that I'm capable of fending for myself. There's nothing wrong with asking for help or advice, but there's a part of me that will always feel awkward asking for either; I've been on my own for too long.

That being said, I want this damnable door to open up and let the two of us pass through so we can hurry up and fix my control issues. The faster we get in, the faster we get this done.

My concentration is broken as the sound of rushing wind reaches my ears; I open my eyes, wondering where the sound could be coming from. I mean, we're not exactly in open air, and, if what I've seen of the Cave is anything to go by, it doesn't exactly get drafty in here. Unless the air conditioning is set at gale force wind, this shouldn't be happening.

From somewhere within the mirror, the black, swirling mass of shadows has passed through the glass, and into the room, acting as though it were a tornado; the cyclone of shadows twists and turns, drawing the very air in the room into its epicenter; scraps of paper are sent whipping through the air, some of my sister's books are ripped from their spots on the bookshelves, even she narrows her eyes and holds a hand up to protect herself from the flying debris.

What the bloody hell is going on here? This _isn't_ natural – and that's coming from a half-demon!

The black cyclone begins to expand, extending forth from the mirror as if it were reaching out towards us, me specifically! I try to back away, I try to find something, anything to hide behind or grab onto, something to prevent myself from being drawn into the cavernous black maw, but to no avail.

I can't escape! The wind whips around me, lifting me off my feet and pulling me into the swirling black abyss! I frantically reach out, hoping for something to grab onto, grasping at air as I'm pulled deeper and deeper into the cyclone. Spinning, whirling, still descending, like a spiral sea, unending!

There is no end to the writhing, spinning mass of darkness, this horrifying black abyss, no escape! If this is the door to my soul, if this is a sign of things to come, I'm not sure if I'm truly prepared to face what's inside. If this endless void of swirling shadows and howling winds is what I truly am at base level…

Then what will I find inside?

I try to cry out to my sister for help, but even my breath is sucked out of me the moment I open my mouth, the high winds pound against my ears, making it nearly impossible for me to hear anything but sound of the wind buffeting around me. There is nothing else, nothing but the sound of the wind howling in my ears and total darkness enveloping me as I descend deeper and deeper into this endless void, deeper and deeper into my own soul.

Maybe I should've asked for a bit more information before opening this door to my soul…

Yes, that would've been wise, but hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say.

I stop reaching out for something to grab onto, resigning myself to the fact that I'm going to fall no matter what I do, it's just a question of where exactly I'm going to _land_ at this point. Well, that and whether or not I'll survive the impact.

Though, I am falling into my soul, so that answers the 'where' question. As for whether or not I'll survive… I'd like to think that my death wouldn't be via soul searching. Also, I highly doubt that my sister would let me do something that would possibly lead to my rather untimely death, especially under her watch.

None of that changes the fact that I'm falling, so it's really irrelevant at this point. It's all just noise, thoughts that I'm using to distract myself from my fear. I don't want to die, especially not like this. True, I haven't been overly happy or even content with my life up to this point, but I don't want to die. No sane person does.

Without warning, I make impact with solid ground at long last, wheezing and sputtering as my breath is driven from my lungs.

I struggle to my feet, muttering expletives in both English and French, running a few of them together and creating a couple rather interesting ones. Why the bloody hell did the ground in my soul have to be so freaking hard?

Yes, I know that's a silly question to ask, but I really don't care. It's my soul, damn it, it shouldn't hurt _me_ when I drop in – quite literally – for a visit. Barely a minute has passed, and I'm already annoyed with this circus act! With my luck, my soul is nothing more than a long, empty hallway that echoes with _every single_ step I take!

Wait a minute… grass? Okay, so I was wrong, my soul isn't a hallway. That's great. No, really, I'm thrilled. I'll take nature over long, echoing hallway any day of the week.

At least I can have a moment's peace in nature.

Of course, my curiosity isn't just satisfied with staring at a few blades of grass beneath my feet; no matter how relieved I am that this isn't going to be something stupid like –

No… No… No, no, no, that had better not be what I think it is!

In the cartoons my cousin used to watch, characters' thought processes were humorously shown by showing an X-ray image of the his or her head, inside which, a hamster would be running on a wheel. This is relevant to me at the moment, as I really have no other way to describe how I feel right now without saying it this way: if my thought processes were to be shown using the running hamster image, the hamster just tripped and is still spinning on the wheel.

What the bloody, sodding hell is this _thing_ doing in my soul?

"Oh for the love of – what the bloody fuck?" Not even my sister manipulating my emotions could calm the levels of anger I've reached just with seeing this. _This_ shouldn't be here! This is my soul, it's supposed to be something that I like, right?

Then why the bloody hell is this place here?!

If I didn't know any better, I'd say that I just fell into one of my nightmares; or perhaps, saying that I've fallen back in time might be a better way of putting it. Either way, it's there, standing tall in front of me, just as I remember it. With white painted walls, large windows, a flat top roof, and the Union Jack flying on a flagpole in the courtyard. Even that sign, that bloody sign, was just the way I remember it!

East Little Whinging Primary School

"I thought this was supposed to be my soul, not my own personal hell," I grumble under my breath. "I _really_ hope that this problem of mine manifests itself into a human form… if only so I can snap its sodding neck!"

"Ahem," I turn around, looking for the source of the noise, and come face to face with none other than my sister, who is currently looking rather irritated. A quick recap of today's events reminds me that she was quite insistent that Garfield refrain from swearing in front of me, in an attempt to prevent me from picking up his colorful language.

And she just heard my little outburst… lovely. Just what I needed.

She remains silent for a moment, giving me a stern glare all the while, as if trying to decide whether or not to lecture me or simply convey her displeasure with my choice of language via piercing gaze.

I have to say, I've never met someone capable of making me squirm with just a look, but she somehow manages to pull it off. Perhaps this is the 'looking through you' thing that Garfield was referring to earlier.

"Considering the situation, I'll let your choice of words slide," she says. "Just this once." Well, at least she's being somewhat understanding on this matter, even if she doesn't know the full story of my past.

Though, with my reaction, I might as well have held up a sign that read 'Childhood Trauma' and danced around in front of her. In short, she's got yet another valuable piece of information concerning my past, once again, as a direct result of me losing my temper.

Oh, well, I guess. There are worse people who could learn my secrets; at least she's trying to help me overcome my issues, which is certainly more than I can say for certain _other_ members of my family.

Anyways, back to the situation at hand. I'm back in freaking primary school, my primary school. This is, quite literally, the last place in the world I want to be. The Dursley's house doesn't count because it was a pile of smoldering rubble the last time I saw it.

Most of my memories of this place were of me being bullied or ostracized by the other kids, and of teachers not believing me when I told on other kids for making fun of me or, in the case of Dudley's gang, hitting me. They compared me to the boy who cried wolf; every other kid would vouch for his or her friends, very rarely would one take my side, so I was the liar. I was the troublemaker.

I didn't miss this place, not one bit. I didn't miss the teachers, the headmaster, the staff, the kids, the playground, nothing. I _hated_ this place. I still do.

The thought that _this_ is the manifestation of my soul, the center of my very being… I honestly can't describe the feeling. Furious, disgusted, neither of those even comes close.

Let me put it this way: my sister can probably _taste_ my fury due to her empathy. I'd be surprised if she's not wondering if I'm about to lose control again.

"Any chance that you just blow the whole place up if I ask really nicely?" I inquire, trying to pull off the most pleading look possible.

"The school is a physical manifestation of you, Harry, it houses everything about you, everything that you are."

"So…"

"I'm not destroying it," she says dryly.

"Please?"

"No."

"I won't complain later, I won't even look. I'll just turn my back, plug my ears and –"

"I said no," She cuts me off, glaring sternly.

Damn, so much for the quick fix. Looks like I'll have to face my inner demons, as it were: I have to go back to school.

I'm not sure which is worse, actually having to walk through those doors again, or the fact that I actually just thought that in any sort of dramatic fashion. I'll just say yes to both.

And, since my sister won't simply destroy this damnable place, I get to take her on the grand tour whilst searching for the cause of my control issues. What a lovely brother-sister bonding experience this will be.

"For the record," I say as I start walking to the front doors, with her following a couple steps behind. "I absolutely hate this."

"I couldn't tell," she drawls. "You're leading, by the way. While I might have experience in this sort of thing, you're obviously familiar with this place."

"Unfortunately, yes," I reply, not breaking stride. "This is where I went to school."

She pauses briefly to digest my statement, before putting the pieces together. "I take it that your time at the actual school was unpleasant."

I push the doors open hard, causing them to slam against the walls. "That's an understatement. I was miserable here."

Nothing more was said on the subject, nothing more needed to be said. My soul has apparently manifested itself in a way that reflects my outlook on life; it shows the place where my misery was at its worst, the place where I learned just how alone in the world I truly was.

Truth be told, I came to expect the Dursleys to neglect me, to mistreat me. When I first came to this school, I dared to hope that I might find friends. I dared to hope that I wouldn't be alone anymore.

I was wrong. Even at school, I was abnormal. Anyone who may have tried to befriend me initially was either scared off or lead to believe that I was a freak by my cousin. Perhaps they didn't treat me bad initially, but they came to.

Children tend to have a bit of a pack mentality; if a large enough group says or does something, the rest tend to follow, especially if their parents don't do anything to dissuade them. Given the fact that my Aunt and Uncle gossiped with the neighbors and parents of other children, telling them that I was nothing more than a troublemaker, a good for nothing drain on their finances, no parent would stand up for me. Not when I was cast as an ungrateful little brat, who caused his relatives nothing but trouble when they took me in out of the goodness of their hearts.

I left this place without looking back; I didn't care after that night. After my Aunt and Uncle's deaths, after Dudley was critically injured because I lost control, I had nothing to keep me in England. I had no connections to anyone else, no one who would take me in.

Aunt Marge? She'd probably have me shipped off to an orphanage or some juvenile detention facility. Or she'd make good on her constant allusions to how she would have the so-called 'runt' of the litter drowned. I was on my own after that night.

But now, as I walk through these halls again, these empty halls that were once filled with the sound of children laughing and talking as they waited for class to begin, I've come full circle. In trying to discover myself, in trying to find something within that will help me control my powers, I've come back to the roots of my depression.

This place is just as dull and bleak as I recall, and, as if my soul had a cruel sense of humor, every step we take echoes and reverberates throughout the hall. My shoes and sister's boots don't exactly have soft soles either. Perfect.

Maybe next, the headmaster will come storming up to me, yelling at me for skiving classes for the last five years before dragging me into his office by my ear for an hour long lecture. I'll really feel at home after that.

As it turns out, this place isn't quite that realistic. Like I said before, there aren't any kids here, I haven't seen any teachers in any of the classrooms I've glanced into, hell, I haven't even seen a bloody prefect.

This place is as quiet as a cemetery, _too_ quiet. While it can be said that this is expected since we're inside my soul, this is just unnatural. Frankly, I'm rather emotionally unbalanced; shouldn't my soul reflect that to some extent? If this place is really part of me, then shouldn't it show something I like or some evidence of my innermost turmoil?

Granted, we're inside my old primary school, so I suppose that's something, but I would've thought that there would be… more. Like, I don't know, some sort of thunderstorm raging outside? Or maybe shades of my old classmates making fun of me the moment I walked inside?

Perhaps that's a bit too cliché, but, well, how would I know any better? I'm a bit new to all this.

I find myself unconsciously walking the path to my old classroom; even after five years away, I can still remember it. Two more hallways and then take a right, third door on the left. Walk in and my desk is the last one in the middle row.

Odd that I would remember it that well, but I walked this path five days a week for nearly half a year before leaving England behind.

As I reach the hallway, I briefly turn back to make sure that my sister is following along; indeed, she's a couple steps behind me, looking here and there, taking note of her surroundings, as if trying to find some subtle clue, something hidden that she can use. She's either hoping that she can learn just a bit about my past, or she's focused on the topic at hand and is searching for the answer to my problem.

For all I know, it's a combination of both.

I round the corner, still in the process of turning my head to face forward again, and collide with something. No, some_one_. Thankfully, I was able to maintain my balance, this person, however, couldn't. I blink a couple times in surprise, taking a moment to survey this newcomer as he rapidly shakes his head to clear the cobwebs, pausing to rub his backside as if to ease the pain.

As he turns his head upwards, still grimacing with the pain from his fall, I feel my heart stop. Am I looking in a bloody mirror?

_He_ is _me_!

Literally, I am looking at someone who could pass for my identical twin! Hell, his clothes are even similar to the ones I wore prior to meeting my sister! Old sneakers; jeans that are faded, ripped and stained with blood and mud; a stained white t-shirt; and a Toronto Maple Leafs hoodie, with the hood currently hanging down. The only difference is that his hoodie is grey.

Seriously, what the hell am I looking at right now?

I open my mouth, trying to decide what to say to this – whatever he is – but find that I can't put it into words. What can I say? 'Hello, who are you, why are you in my soul and why do you have my face?' Probably not the best introduction.

Finally, he opens his eyes and looks up at me, staring into my eyes with a mixture of shock and… fear.

"Please don't hurt me!" He cries, throwing his hands up in front of his face and shrinking away from me.

Once again, I find myself left speechless, blinking in surprise. I haven't even made a move towards him to help him… and he's shrinking away from me as if I've just thrown him down and am preparing to stomp him into the ground.

"I'm not going to –" I start to say, but he flinches and whimpers in fear at the mere sound of my voice, still looking up at me in complete horror. What the hell am I supposed to do? Just looking at him seems to send him into a panic!

The sound of rapid footsteps tells me that my sister is running to catch up, likely wondering what I've – quite literally – run into. She stops just behind me; I feel a small flicker of surprise from her with my empathy.

I wonder what she thinks about there being _two_ of me.

"Well," she says. "It looks like you've already come across a part of yourself. That saves time."

"A part of myself?" I parrot. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. We're in your soul, this 'Harry' that you've run into is a personification of one of your emotions, literally, he is you."

"_This_ is me?" I ask with no shortage of incredulity.

She nods once. "Yes. He is part of you."

I break off staring at my counterpart to look back at my sister. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Yes, I heard you, but I'm not sure that I believe it!"

"Whether or not you believe it is irrelevant," she says. "Think about the concept: he is the embodiment of just _one_ of your emotions, he is a living breathing representation of how you are, except he is constantly feeling that one emotion."

In an odd way, that makes some sense. It does seem logical that a personification of a single emotion would exhibit the traits of the very emotion it personifies. But, no matter how logical it may sound, it's still difficult to accept that I'm looking at a human manifestation of my own emotions… Well, one specific in particular.

If this is the personification of one of my emotions, and he exhibits all of those traits, then I should be able to figure out just which one he is. Judging from the way he recoils from me, from the mere sound of my voice, and looks at me in utter terror, there are really only one or two logical answers…

"Fear," I say after a moment of silence. "You're Fear!"

He shakes his head nervously, not taking his eyes off of me in case I make a move towards him. "N-No, I-I'm n-n-not F-Fear," he stutters. "I-I'm Timid."

"Close guess, though," my sister notes. "Fear and Timid are two very closely related emotions in their very nature."

That sort of goes without saying, but I'll keep that thought to myself. I turn my gaze back to the cowering emotion, only to find him trying to sneak away, crawling inch by inch as my sister and I converse. "Hey!" I snap, grabbing Timid by the back of his hoodie, eliciting a squeak of surprise from my cowardly counterpart. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Uh… I-I was just… Well… I-I have to –" His incoherent babbling was starting to get on my nerves, adding to the irritation I've been feeling.

I pulled him up to face me fully, glowering at him, silently daring him to stutter just _one_ more time.

"Harry," my sister says warningly. "That's enough! You're not going to get anything out of him by threatening him! Retreating into himself is his nature."

"I'm not threatening him," I say slowly. "I'm just… giving him some motivation."

"Call it what you will, but it's not going to work."

I grumble under my breath in slight annoyance. "Fine!" I snap, releasing my hold on Timid's hoodie and gesturing to him in frustration. "Then how would you suggest handling this?"

She stepped forward, offering a hand to my trembling counterpart and helping him to his feet. "In situations such as this, a bit more finesse is required. You don't want him to retreat farther into his shell than he already has, and you especially don't want to alienate a part of yourself within the confines of your own soul."

"It's rather difficult not to scare him when he's frightened of his own bloody shadow," I mutter.

"Then you should realize that snarling at him like a rabid dog is the absolute worst thing to do at the moment."

Fair point, I suppose. While Timid is still glancing warily between the two of us, he isn't quite as jittery as before; he probably feels a bit more at ease knowing that at least one of us isn't half a step from slamming him up against a wall, even if it's only slightly so.

Very well, then I will at least make a small effort to 'play nice' as it were. If it gets him to stop being so skittish and start being helpful, then I can make an effort not to take my frustrations out on him verbally or physically.

While that sounds completely reasonable and relatively easy to do, patience has never been one of my strongest attributes; made quite evident by my chosen methods. I believe one newspaper article made the claim that I was always "one step away from going on a rampage" while I was in Detroit, or was it Chicago? No matter. I, personally, feel that to be an exaggeration, but it does make a good point: my temper is rather short – as made evident quite recently – and I do have a history of lashing out.

"Fine," I say again, forcing myself not to growl the word out. "Timid, we're here to find whatever it is that is causing my – well, our, I guess – powers to go out of control whenever I feel a particularly strong emotion. Can you help us find it?"

There, I played nice. See?

My cowardly emotion nodded nervously. "Yes," he said in his squeaky voice. "But…" He turned to look at my sister, preferring to address her rather than me. "But you won't like me when we get there," He mumbles before looking back to me. "_He_ already doesn't like me."

Oops.

"He's just frustrated," she says, placing a hand on his shoulder in support, which seems to placate him and calm his nerves somewhat, if the slight shift in his positioning so that he's closer to her is anything to judge by. I just barely resist the urge to glare at him; I don't care if he's part of me, she's _my_ sister!

She sends me another stern look, mouthing 'don't argue, go along with it' to me. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, and manage to follow her directions. "Yes," I say dryly. "I'm frustrated. I've had a bad day, so I took it out on you. I'm sorry." I don't think I could've possibly said it with any _less_ emotion. That had better work, I'm not saying it again, and I am most certainly _not_ going to get all touchy feely with him, even if he is technically me.

Timid looks at me shyly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "R-Really?"

Damn him! "Yes," I say through gritted teeth, forcing myself to smile at him. "So, can you help us… please?" Just say yes, just say yes, just say yes.

To my immense relief, he nods, pointing to the door to my classroom. "Y-You have to go through there, but –"

I don't wait for him to finish, I spin on my heel and stride towards the door, grasping the handle and wrenching it open, fully intending to walk in and beat whatever or whoever is creating this issue until it's lying in a pool of its own blood. The sight that I'm greeted with completely derails all thoughts of violence.

This isn't my classroom. Hell, this isn't any part of my school that I remember.

For starters, the ceiling is gone; not like something ripped through it or collapsed it, it's just not there. The sky above us is completely black, I can see the full moon, blood red as it floats in the sky above us. I stare in shock as a _door_ floats overhead, and then another… and another.

What is this? What the bloody hell is this?

Instead of a hallway, this door lead to some weird, parallel dimension with a twisted, physics defying hallway. The scene before me is a complete inversion of the orderly world I know. I've stepped into a world that doesn't even exist in _my_ nightmares.

Only one word comes to mind as I take in the scene before me, only one word can aptly sum up my feelings. "Super," I mutter sarcastically.

**Chapter End**


	8. Who is Harry?

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own the **_**Harry Potter**_** series or DC Comics, nor do I claim any rights to their characters.**

**Chapter 8: Who is Harry?**

This is ridiculous. This whole thing is so unbelievably confusing, so ridiculous that I don't even know where to begin.

Apparently, the Law of Physics have been thrown out the window in this manifestation of my soul, either that or I'm imagining the floating doors and rocks and that blood red moon that gleams in the night sky. This world is so nonsensical, something akin to a fantasy novel; it's not helping my frustration in the least bit.

Having to walk into my old primary school was maddening enough, but this is taking it to a completely different level.

The fact that I have to journey through it all with that stuttering, whimpering, skittish version of myself, the personification of my timidity, is only serving to piss me off even more. I swear, if he apologizes to my sister for hiding, if he jumps and squeaks as one of these odd doors floats by, if he whines, if he does any of that just _one more time_ I'm going to hurt him.

I'll break his sodding kneecaps, I'll shatter his damn jaw, I'll dislocate his bloody shoulder, anything to get him to shut the hell up!

"… And if you heard about that time that I slammed a crooked cop's head with the door of his patrol car, I'm sorry. And, and, if you heard about how I brained his partner with his own police baton, I'm sorry. And for the time I threw a pimp down two flights of stairs… and then slammed his head into the bottom step… and the time I shattered a man's jaw with a baseball bat… and the time I –"

"Okay!" I snap, turning and glaring at him. The cowardly version of me squeaks in fear – _again_ – and quickly hides behind my sister, using her as a human shield against my wrath. A human shield that is currently giving me a rather stern glare, she's practically radiating irritation. At the moment, I'll risk the damn lecture if it'll shut this moron up! "That's more than enough, Timid!"

He pokes his head out from behind my sister's cloak, literally quaking in his shoes. "But, I was just –"

"I DON'T BLOODY CARE!" I shout, causing him to jump in fright and hide behind her again. I take a deep breath, trying to cool my volatile temper, trying to reign in my anger before I go along with my earlier thoughts and actually strangle the little bastard. "I don't want to hear any more of your apologizing! I don't want to hear any more of your damn whimpering about how 'mean we were' or how much of a horrible little brother we've been! I'm done! I can't bloody take any more of it! I get it! I'm a horrible person! Just. Shut. Up!"

My sister steps forward, despite the fact that she is perhaps a few centimeters taller than me, it seems as though she towers over me as her stern glare intensifies. I can't help but shrink back as her darkness comes to life once again, rising up and engulfing me, sending my own darkness into a panicked frenzy, sending me warnings to back down before my she decides to forgo patience and assert her authority as the older sibling in our family. Even her cloak seems to billow out, as if it were attempting to surround me in shadows.

For once, I don't feel as comfortable in the darkness.

Her eyes glow white as her powers manifest with her rising temper. "Enough." She commands. I nod quickly, wanting to make her go back to the calm, quiet, nice sister that I've become accustomed to in the last few hours. Garfield's fear of an angry Raven makes much more sense now that I'm in her sights.

"Yes, sister," I quickly submit, in a manner similar to the source of my ire. Realizing this, I feel a bit of horror at the notion; he really _is_ just like me!

Timid leaned in and whispered fearfully. "Do you think she'll get angrier if I tell her about the time we hit that arsonist with a brick?"

"I'd rather not test my luck." He blanched as the implications hit him and he falls silent, doing his very best to make himself invisible to my sister, lest he give her any more reason to be angry at us.

The fact that I am doing the exact same thing is irrelevant; I simply don't want to suffer the wrath of my enraged older sister should she discover that I have been much more violent than I let on during the hearing.

Granted, Timid has painted her a rather vivid picture of my bloodstained past during his recounting of my deeds, but it's better that we just leave it where it is.

No need to tell her any of the really bad ones, I'd rather not go into detail. I highly doubt that she'll be amused if she hears about a certain incident involving a man wearing a rather odd uniform; a black military style uniform with a yellow 'H' on the shoulder.

Most of my memory of this is a bit blurry, but I can distinctly recall hitting him repeatedly with that truncheon, I remember his pleas for mercy and the sickening sound of his ribs cracking with each blow I rained down upon him.

As I said, she won't be happy, so we're not talking about it. _Ever_.

Raven turned away from me, no longer glaring disapprovingly through those amethyst eyes, and surveyed our surroundings. "This is more bizarre than even my own soul self," she declared. "There is little reason in anything, no organization at all."

"Sorry, I guess I have more issues than I thought," I quip drily. It's not like I can help that this plane, this representation of my soul, is a senseless dimension in which all laws of gravity and matter need not apply. "Wait a minute, you would know, wouldn't you?" I ask, turning my gaze on Timid.

My cowardly clone twiddles his fingers for a moment, lowering his gaze and refusing to meet my eyes. "W-Well, I do sort of know," he reluctantly admits. "But, well, that is, I don't know if I should… well, I might not be the best person to –"

"For the sake of my sanity, either come out and say it or belt up!" He recoils in fear, looking at me as if I were the coming of the antichrist.

"Harry," my sister calls warningly. Once again, I find myself on the receiving end of her stern gaze, that look that makes me feel as if I'm nothing more than microbe in her eyes. A microbe in power and in worth.

I loathe that feeling.

"I'm sorry, sister," the apology is out before I can even think, almost instinctively.

How strange that I'd be so willing to see the error of my own ways and submit to the direction of another so quickly.

She simply nods and continues onwards, trying to peer through the glass of one of the floating doors, frowning as it zooms past her before she can get a good look inside.

Almost mercifully, Timid chose that moment to speak up and finally be helpful. "They won't stop for you," he mumbled quietly, barely loud enough for my sister to hear. But she did hear; Raven turned to face him, raising a brow in confusion and nodding for him to continue. "The doors will only stop for him," he paused to gesture towards me. "Or one of his emotions."

"Interesting. Are you saying that his soul is protecting itself from intruders?" She beat me to that one.

He shuffled uneasily. "Yes and no. It's to defend our soul, but it's also supposed to defend against… things."

"What things?" I step forward, intrigued by this new bit of information. "What is this place defending against?"

Timid steps back, refusing to meet my eyes. "Everything. It's supposed to make sure no one can come in and attack us from inside, but it's also to stop us from looking in."

"Why? Why stop me from looking in?" This makes no sense at all!

"Because it hurts," he replies in an empty voice, finally lifting his head to meet my gaze. I flinch back at the sight of his eyes, they look dead, completely devoid of emotion. "If we don't look within, it doesn't have to hurt anymore… It doesn't hurt if we don't look in…"

I step closer, desperate to find just what it is that could possibly hurt me should I look in. What could my own soul possibly be hiding? "What is it that hurts us? What made this happen?"

Timid's eyes shut tight; he clamps his hands over his ears and shakes his head as if trying to rid himself of some horrible apparition. "It doesn't have to hurt," he whispers frantically, as tears begin to cascade down his cheeks. "It doesn't have to hurt…"

"What hurts?" I demand. I take his wrists in my hands, ignoring my sister's protests, and try to force him to listen. "What hurts? Tell me what hurts, damn it!"

"I don't want to hurt anymore!" He cries, snapping his head up and opening his eyes. With a sudden rush of telekinetic power, I'm flung backwards off of him and thrown into one of the many floating doors.

Pain shoots up my back like a hot lance, this thing is quite solid for some representation of my own soul. A slight moan of pain escapes my lips as I reach around to place a hand on my aching back, hissing as my movements bring a new jolt of pain.

Raven is at my side almost instantly, giving me a quick once over with her powers before turning her gaze back onto Timid. "Stop!" She commands urgently.

I look up through my pain to see if he's attacking me, if she's trying to prevent him from inflicting further harm onto my person, but it's quite the opposite. Beneath him, the shadows are swirling like a black, murky whirlpool. My eyes widen in shock as it hits me: he's trying to teleport!

"Timid, stop!" I shout, desperate to distract him or unnerve him or something! Anything to keep him here! Anything to make him stay and tell me whatever secrets he may be hiding.

Too late! Timid can't hear me, he's already lost himself to his despair, to whatever inner demons that I have, yet can't recall. The shadows begin to creep up his body, he begins to sink into the floor, muttering and weeping as he vanishes from sight.

"Bugger!" I mutter, struggling to my feet in spite of the pain in my lower back. "There goes any hope of getting some decent information out of him!"

"To be fair, I did warn you not to push him," Raven chides me gently. "You must control yourself, don't let your desires or emotions rule you. Feel, but don't let them dictate your actions."

Grudgingly, I must give her that one. "I'll try." There's not much I can argue on this point, the evidence just left in a swirl of shadows, tears and muttered gibberish.

Thanks to me allowing my impulses to control me yet again.

And now, thanks to me, we're back to square one – we have no guide to lead us through this land of the bizarre that is my soul. What's worse, this world is apparently in such a state both for my own protection and to prevent me from looking within, for reasons that I cannot recall.

The more I search for answers, the more questions I end up with.

"None of this makes sense," I say, more to myself than anything.

"Actually, this explains a bit," Raven supplied. "While his departure does take away our lead, Timid provided us with quite a bit of insight."

"How do you figure that?"

"Based on his ranting, and the fact that you've experienced great trauma in your life, it seems that your soul has warped itself in an attempt to protect you from whatever inner demons you might find."

In short, I have far more issues than even I realize. Spectacular. Exactly what I needed to hear at this point. "So, where do we go from here?"

She pauses for a moment, I watch as her eyes glance from me to the door that Timid threw me into a moment ago; those amethyst orbs focus in on something and narrow.

Now, she's just making me curious. I look for myself and find that she's looking at some strange writing on the inside of the window, scribbled on with what appears to be a marker.

Oddly enough, the handwriting on all of it is the same, but the mood of it is… varying.

"We are alone, we don't want to be hurt."

"Today may have been horrible, but tomorrow is a new day!"

"There's no point in trying, all we do is cause more misery."

"Never give up! Even in the face of rejection!"

This pattern of banter continues all over the glass window.

Raven and I share a look of utter confusion, neither of us seem to know what to say. After a moment, I give up trying to vocalize my opinion on this sight and open the door, stepping into what is, for all intents and purposes, the unknown.

Not two steps into the room, I'm greeted by the sound of my own voice, the speaker seems exasperated, trying to convince another person – probably another version of me – to stop moping.

"Come _on_, Despair!" Whichever version of me this is, he seems rather annoyed. "You've been sitting here like this for _five freaking years_! Let's go do something! Let's go play with Happy or annoy Wisdom or something!"

Silence was the only response he received, Despair didn't so much as grunt a reply.

The other emotion groans in frustration. "At least have the decency to say something! Don't just sit there staring at the bloody floor!"

As I walk forward, I come upon two more "me's", one vehemently trying to pull the other off the ground or elicit a response from him.

The one sitting on the ground, Despair, I assume, hasn't made a single move to acknowledge the one tugging on his arm, nor has he even looked up and noticed my presence. Despair's version of my Maple Leafs hoodie was colored a dark, charcoal grey, a drab and dismal color fitting his name. And, while my own hair could be described as a bird's nest at best, a used cotton swab at worst, Despair's unkempt mop bears more resemblance to a meth addict than anything.

His companion is a stark contrast to his dismal state; this other "me" is dressed in a lighter blue variation of my hoodie and seems to be reasonably well groomed, in comparison to Despair, that is. His face is currently set in a determined grimace as he tries in vain to pull the miserable emotion to his feet to engage in some sort of activity to change his mood.

Evidently, this one has been trying to pull Despair out of his… well, despair, for some time now, with no success.

However, he seems undeterred. This new emotion keeps trying to pull Despair up, grunting and cursing as his efforts fail time and time again, despite the fact that the avatar of my misery hasn't moved a muscle or shown any signs of actual physical resistance.

As intriguing as this sight is, I clear my throat and turn their attention towards me. Despair barely even spares me a glance, but the light blue garbed emotion's eyes widen in surprise, his expression shifts to a grin wide enough to split his face as he makes a triumphant noise and literally bounds over to me, seizing me in a bone crushing hug.

"I knew it! I knew you'd come back!" He cries happily, ignoring the fact that I'm gasping for air and struggling to escape his vice-like grip. "Gloom and doom over there said that I was wasting my time, but I knew you weren't gonna leave like that!"

Like that? How exactly did I leave before? For that matter, when the hell was I even hear before today?

Fortunately for my ribs and spine, my sister mercifully chose that moment to step in. "Excuse me," she interjected politely. "While this does seem to be quite the happy reunion, I'd prefer not losing my brother due to his own emotion suffocating him."

He released and was at least three steps away before I could even blink. "Oops!" He said sheepishly. "Sorry! I get really excited really easily!"

"We couldn't tell," I wheezed sarcastically. To my annoyance, he simply laughs it off as if he's used to this song and dance.

Oh, right. He's _me_. This is just too bloody confusing.

"I'm sorry," he chortled, futilely trying to reign in his laughter. "It's just been so long since the last time you were here, so it's been a while since I had a laugh with you."

"With me? I don't even remember _being_ here before today! I don't even know who you are!"

"Well, technically, I'm you." Walked right into that one. "But, you probably mean which _you_ I am, so I'm Hope."

What? "I have hope?" That's ridiculous! That's absurd! That's…

Completely logical given that he exists. Damn.

"You sure do!" He chirps happily. For some reason, he pauses for a moment as if remembering something important before speaking again. "Well, I used to be Determination, but that changed a few years ago. "

There it is again!

"That's the second time you've said something about the past, but I don't remember anything about this place or even you!"

Hope simply shrugged it off. "That makes sense, given the circumstances that surrounded… well, everything."

"Kindly elaborate," Raven pressed.

"Can't. Sorry."

"Why the bloody hell not?" I snap. I can deal with Timid's little emotional breakdown; it's not exactly surprising that he would buckle under pressure. This one, however, has no such issues.

I am _not_ letting this one slide!

He just shrugs again. "I just can't. I'd love to, but I can't."

"Why?" Resist the urge to throttle him; casual indifference doesn't warrant violence. No matter how appealing the thought may be.

"I just can't. Don't worry though," he says with a smile. "I'm confident you'll figure it out on your own."

My sister and I both step forward, one calm, one frustrated. "I can understand that you want Harry to learn to look within on his own," Raven began. "But wouldn't it be more beneficial if he acquires the knowledge sooner?"

Hope seems to pause in thought, but shakes his head negatively. "Short term, yes. Long term, not at all."

"What rubbish are you talking about?" I snap angrily. The secret to controlling my powers could be right in front of me, all he has to do is bloody say it! "If I learn it now I learn control, yes?" He nods once. "Then come out and _say it_!"

His response was simple. "No."

"Damn it, obey me!" I snap, ignoring my sister's warning look. "This is _my soul_! You are a part of me! Tell me what I want to know!"

"If I do, it'll only hurt you," he spoke calmly, easily stopping me in my tracks. "It'll open up all your old wounds, every mistake you've ever made brought to the surface. Emotionally, you won't be able to handle it. More importantly, you won't learn anything if you just take the quick and easy route as you have whenever faced with a problem."

"That's a lie and you know it! I don't –"

"Don't you?" He pressed, stepping towards me, his expression becoming more serious with each passing second. "Think back, it's quite obvious that you do, even in the way you deal with criminals. You don't discriminate. You don't give punishments that fit the crime. No, you tell the same story each time. You beat them bloody, you break their bones, you inflict every bit of pain you can and then, after all that, as if they need further punishment, you break their minds beyond repair. Every time, without fail, you act without considering the consequences, because you're afraid of the guilt and the pain that comes with it. And every time you act, you cause problems for yourself."

For a moment, I feel cold, as if the icy hand of death itself had plunged into my stomach. It couldn't be true, it just couldn't! "No," I muttered. "No, that isn't true!"

"Are you sure? I can think of one or two instances," Hope paused to trace the lines of a scar that went from the bridge of his nose to his left cheekbone; one of the many scars present on my body.

A scar from my past; an injury suffered because I acted without thinking, without planning my course of action or accounting for that of my opponent at that time. It was the same way that I learned to fight: experiencing injuries because of failures and then adjusting to prevent those injuries from occurring again.

But that was the problem. That was how I did everything! In fact, it's how I still do everything!

He's right.

I've never stopped to reflect on the people I've broken, the minds I've shattered, because I didn't want to face the possibility that I had been too hasty, too brutal.

Too cruel.

"Starting to remember?" He asked. "Starting to see what I'm talking about? Each and every time you've used that power to manipulate the mind and trap your victims in terrible illusions, you bury the guilt and rationalize it as doing something for justice, in the name of 'good'."

That cold feeling in the pit of my stomach spreads throughout my body, rendering me numb to everything. As much as I've tried to avoid admitting it, as much as I've pretended to subscribe to this idea that doing evil unto evil is for the greater good of society, I know it's wrong. I know that _I'm_ doing wrong.

Breaking the minds of petty criminals is going too far. And I've always known it; I just refused to acknowledge my mistake. My naivety.

I lied to myself because I was afraid to admit that I was wrong. Worse, I let that lie become reality; I trapped myself in an illusion, not of nightmare, but ideals.

I've always been wrong, and I can't justify it, no matter how hard I try.

"I'm just as bad as them," I mutter.

Hope smiles sadly. "Yes. And that was the first lesson you had to learn. Just as they try to justify their crimes as a response to their situation, you justify excessive punishment with a simplistic idea: 'they broke the rules, they don't get a second chance.'"

There are no words that aptly describe the feeling of horror that gripped me at that moment, no word in any language could be used to denote the momentary dizziness, the numbness, the feeling of ice running through my veins as his words registered in my mind and the memories flashed before my eyes.

Oh, God, what had I done? What have I become?

Timid's frantic apologies were just the beginning, just the surface of my past; they were just some of the acts that I deeply, secretly regretted.

Some of my victims have indeed been guilty of heinous crimes; those are the ones who deserved the punishment I dealt out to them. Seeing such vile, disgusting actions committed by these people, human beings committing harm upon one another as if it were commonplace, had hardened me against pitying their kind. Memories of murder, rape and brutal beatings became motivation for my actions; just thinking on them sent me into the cold, predatory fury that people came to associate with me.

The memories turned me into the very thing they all feared: the Wraith. I became the boy who haunted the dark alleys, searching for any unfortunate soul who dared break the law while I was around.

But there were some who hadn't gone that far; there were some criminals who hadn't done physical harm onto others. They were stopped, rightfully so, but it didn't stop when the crime was prevented. No. I didn't stop until I felt they had either learned their lesson or been punished sufficiently.

I should've stopped.

"Too simplistic," I mutter horrified. "I was too simplistic."

"You were _young_," he corrects me sternly. "You only knew a very black and white definition of the concepts of right and wrong. The problem was, and still is, that you never really matured past that stage."

Raven, after silently observing for the last few minutes, finally spoke up. "You've wanted him to realize this the whole time, haven't you? This is what you've been hoping for all these years."

"Yes," Hope replies with a nod, smiling once again. "I've been waiting for this chance for five years, five long years."

He's been waiting for me to grow up and face my own fears for five years. _Hope_ isn't just the emotion he represents; it's the very thing he embodies.

He is my own hope, my own desire to step out of the darkness and into the light, something I've struggled with my entire life. And yet, he was faced with the most difficult task of all: forcing me to face my own fears.

Hope had been waiting for this day for the chance to speak with me, to tell me…

"To face my own fears and step into the light. That's what you've wanted," I gasp.

"You've finally figured it out, well done," he praises. "But you're not finished. You still have to face yourself, all the things you've done and come to terms with what and who you really are."

"You seem to know quite a bit," Raven presses, throwing subtlety out the window.

Again, Hope simply shrugs and gives her that damn, annoying smile. "I'm him! I know everything about him!"

Raven falls silent for a moment, giving me the chance to slip a quick word in. "Then who am I?"

"You're Harry, obviously," I heave a sigh of exasperation as his grin widens. I walked right into that one. "You're a young half-demon teen with emotional and trust issues. But it's not that simple; the real question you should be asking is who do you want to be?"

As much as he annoys me, I must admit that he's quite profound. "You've thought this out," I comment idly.

"I've had years," he quips. "Plenty of time to think up a way to push you in the right direction."

"Thinking of loopholes all the while?" Raven asked.

For the first time, Hope seems a bit surprised. "I'm not sure that I –"

Her eyes narrow. "Don't lie to me, you said it yourself. You've had years to plan this out, years of doing nothing but sit here and think up whatever loopholes will help you provide Harry with as much information as possible without taking away from what he was supposed to learn."

If I haven't said it before, I'll say it now: My sister is brilliant.

Hope's easygoing grin fades; that look of seriousness once again taking its place. He opens his mouth to speak, before shaking his head and closing it, unsure of what to say. After a moment, he finds his voice. "You really are sharp," he chuckles. "What gave it away?"

"Everything," she replies. "The way you dodged certain questions without giving concrete reasons, your demeanor, even the way you lectured Harry, it was all planned. As if you knew exactly what he was going to ask and exactly what to say to prevent any more questions on the subject."

He actually laughed at that point. "Unbelievable," he says with a shake of his head. "I didn't plan for you to be here, but I would've never imagined that you'd change everything so much."

"Never expect anything to go exactly as planned –"

"- For the best-laid plans often fall apart horribly," Hope finishes. "To be fair, I _did_ tailor make that plan to deal with myself, technically."

"What plan?" I cut in, more than confused at the battle of wits.

"Oh, I suppose I do owe you a bit of an explanation. Our sister is correct, I was exploiting some loopholes to give you that information. However, she's only _half_ right."

As clichéd as it sounds, the tension in the air was thick after he spoke. Even Raven's expression, those eyes that were normally so calculating and reserved, had changed to reveal her underlying interest, her desire to find whatever was causing me problems and fix it.

"In what way?" She asked. "What have I missed?"

"Well, that's an infinitely more interesting subject," he replies casually. "One that requires much more… _finesse_ to answer without violating orders."

"What orders? Who gave them?" I can't help but ask the rather obvious question; this is my soul, the fact that I'm unaware of some higher power or edict is troubling, to say the least.

"Well, you see, that's the interesting part of it: I can't tell you what the orders actually were, because then you'd work out why they were given. And, at the time, you weren't exactly thinking clearly."

"Why would my thinking have any affect on these orders?"

"Have I not made it obvious?" He asks, genuinely surprised that I haven't worked out his rather vague answers. "I'm following orders. Specifically, I'm following _your_ orders, Harry."

If there was ever a time that I would've liked a chair, it was now. My knees felt weak; my head began to spin as the implications behind his statement hit me. No. "You don't mean –"

"I do. You gave all of us a set of rather strange orders that day. Some of them were so confusing and contradictory that we weren't even sure what to make of them. Not that it was your fault, anyway, you were at a rather low point in your life…"

I shudder as a rush of memories flash before my eyes. "The Dursleys," I mutter. "And…My mother."

"Not quite," My head snaps up to fix him with a look of utter confusion, urging him to continue. "I can't tell you much, but that is only part of the story, one that you were so very close to putting past you before… well, before it all went downhill rather quickly." He holds up a hand in warning. "Don't bother asking, I won't tell you. You were quite clear that night. All I can do is point you in the right direction and tell you to solve your own problems."

"You haven't even given me a clear direction!" I snap. "I can't solve anything if you just stand there spouting off random bits of nonsense!"

"I've given you everything I can," he replies evenly. "The only possible way I can make this more clear is to tell you that you need to stop running and face your own memories. Face the pain that comes with them, and accept it. Now," his smile returns, he raises a hand up, open palmed and aims it at the two of us. "I've said everything I can, it's up to you. _Leave_!"

Neither of us had a chance to react. Tendrils of black lightning arched from the palm of his hand and struck us in the chest! I let out a shout of surprise, bracing myself for the pain I know should be registering, but it never comes. Instead, all I feel is a light tingling sensation in my arms and legs, as if it's nothing more than static electricity. Curiously, I try to move, just twitch my fingers, but my body doesn't respond. I curse violently.

The bloody ponce had cut off part of my nervous system; I couldn't move no matter how hard I tried, the electric signals won't reach my limbs.

But Hope is far from done; this was just the first step. From the palm of his hand, a shadowy form bursts forth, opening and revealing itself as the ghastly, clawed hand of something straight out of nightmares.

The hand of a wraith.

As the hand engulfs the two of us, my vision dims, the shadowy form of this dark hand completely blocks out my vision! I hear my sister yelling something, but it sounds muddled, far away. I can't make it out!

I can't break free! There is no escape! I'm completely powerless!

And yet…

And yet, this hand doesn't seem malignant…

**LINE VERSE**

This can't be right. That definitely did _not_ just happen.

I blink a couple of times to clear my vision, but the scene before me doesn't vanish. It's completely real. We're back in my sister's room. That barmy me managed to kick us – more importantly, _me_ – out of my soul.

Exactly how much power does he have?

"He just threw me out of my own soul," I mutter in complete disbelief. "Can he even _do_ that?"

My sister rises to her feet with a small grunt of pain. "Evidently so," she replies dryly. "Your emotions have more power than mine, perhaps due to how much power they hold over you."

Once again, she does make a rather good point.

"I still say it doesn't make sense," I grumble as I push myself up. "It's _my_ soul, damn it! I should be top authority!"

"Ownership doesn't mean anything when it comes to magic involving the soul. Your emotions can banish you, harm you, even kill you while you're inside your own soul, it all depends on which of you has the most power and skill."

I'm sorry. _What_? Now my own emotions can actually kill me?

Well, I suppose, in a very convoluted, roundabout way that _does_ make sense given my past history with emotional outbursts. Still, the idea that someone like Timid being able to kill me because I was a bit too forceful is most certainly _not_ a comforting thought.

If he kills me, I think I might come back to life just so I can die of embarrassment.

"Still think it's rubbish that he can do that." So I'm a bit petulant, sue me.

"I can sympathize," she says as she brushes a few stray locks of hair out of her face. "My emotions aren't as obedient as I would like either. You'll find that emotions are rather difficult to control, not matter how much of a hold over them you may think you have."

If you put it like that, it does make sense. Having 'control' over one's emotions is a bit of a misnomer; looking at it from a non-biased, non-subjective point of view, it's actually having more control over how you _act_ upon those emotions. There's really no way to stop feeling, even for one who tried as hard as me.

Well, there's no way short of a lobotomy, but I'm not quite that desperate.

As much as my cynicism would have me deny it, I can't help but admit that this foray into my soul did yield some results, even though I may have come away with more questions than answers.

First and foremost is the fact that I have been far too simplistic in my decisions; every action I've taken, every judgment I've handed down, I didn't think. I never allowed myself to actually take a moment to think, to differentiate between the levels of which the crime was committed.

Because doing so would've been too difficult. Doing so would mean that I had to accept that I had previously made mistakes, a notion I avoided at all cost, lest it open up old wounds.

I had run from all of my mistakes, I fled across an ocean, ran across an entire continent, to escape it all. I ran from the pain.

I've been running for five years. Hope had waited five years to meet me 'again', and wasn't even bothered that I couldn't remember a previous meeting with him or his 'brothers', so to speak. All so he could tell me to stop.

I can't afford to run anymore.

**Chapter End**

**Review and let me know what you liked or didn't.**


	9. Tea for Two

**Disclaimer****: I do not own the **_**Harry Potter **_**series or DC comics, nor do I claim rights to any of their characters.**

**Chapter 9: Tea for Two**

So much can happen in a month's time. Hell, my life changed within a single day, give me thirty and everything that I've ever known will surely be turned on end and spun around in some odd direction.

To say that stepping into my soul a month ago seems like ages would be both terribly clichéd and a falsehood, I still remember it all quite vividly; I remember Hope's annoyingly cryptic answers to my questions, the way he blasted Raven and I out of my own soul, and the message he left me with.

More to the point, what occurred _after_ is the change that I'm referencing.

Surprise would be the most mild way to describe my feeling when I was summoned back into the Assembly Hall, only to come face to face with a man of legend, a man whose name was spoken in hushed whispers in the darkness he reigned over.

To think that I would one day come face to face with the Batman was a prospect that had always brought mixed feelings in me: on one hand, he is an example, something that I modeled myself after. He turned fear against those who preyed on the weak and innocent, he made the night a time of terror for those who dared break the law in his domain, Gotham City. On the other hand, I had always been a bit afraid.

For coming face to face with Batman meant one of two things: you were an ally or you were a criminal. As much as I'm sure any member of the Justice League or the Teen Titans has said of what an honor it is to fight alongside the Dark Knight himself, I had always been afraid that I would fall into the latter category.

Yes, I have my powers, I have my heritage, but he has something else. He has the skill, the fury, and the intensity. In short, he is the damn Batman; he doesn't need powers to take me down.

Ask the inmates at Arkham Asylum how far their powers get them in their war against the World's Greatest Detective. Whether it's a woman who can manipulate plant life or a once famed cryogenic scientist, in the end, each and every one of them fell before him and knew the terror that was the Batman.

To face him within the confines of the Cave had a very surreal feeling. The Bat and the Wraith, both in a cave, confined in darkness. A world that, by right, should be mine… but, instead, the shadows did not belong to the scion of a demon.

They belonged to the man behind the cowl.

Apparently, Nightwing had asked him to debrief the team on some of my other dealings over the years, the ones that hadn't been covered prior to my little meltdown. I probably should've felt offended that he wanted to hear from someone other than myself regarding information about my own past, but I can't necessarily fault him for wanting a second opinion on the strange boy who'd been brought to the Cave.

And, really, who else would a former protégé of the Dark Knight turn to?

He didn't say much to me. In fact, I can recall exactly what he said perfectly. Batman looked down at me, his eyes boring deep into my soul as he glared fearlessly into the eyes of a demon that tortured others with visions of terror, and spoke six words.

"We'll be watching you… with interest." Without another word to anyone else, he strode past Raven and I, his cape billowing behind him, and departed. I have not seen or heard any mention of him returning to the Cave since.

I never asked what he said about me, to this day, I still haven't the faintest idea. I know for certain that my sister was given a summary, both by her own admission and change in her attitude, something he had said caused her to pity me more than previously. I'm not quite sure if I take comfort in the fact that she's grown more protective of me than before.

She doesn't smother me, but there's little that I do that she doesn't know of.

I'm still not sure how she could've possibly known about me trying to force my way back inside of my soul again to throttle Hope until he gave me a straight answer while she was off fighting Dr. Light. But, to my disappointment, the moment I placed my hands over the mirror, a message popped up on the computer screen in her room:

"If you so much as utter a syllable of that spell, you'll be grounded until your hair greys."

My sudden relocation to the complete opposite side of the Cave is irrelevant. But I digress.

More important was the decision made by the Titans roster: whether or not I would be invited to join, or if I would be in some sort of odd, nebulous relationship as a senior member's little brother, but not permitted to take part in any missions, training, briefing, or anything of that sort.

Do I even need to say where my preferences lay?

Fortunately, Nightwing brought good news. I had been granted an invitation to join the Teen Titans; someone else had accepted me. I belonged to something.

Of course, my admittance came with one or two stipulations. Namely, my training and schooling. Each member of the Titans had been trained by a mentor – most of which were either in the Justice League or, in Starfire and Raven's cases, seasoned veterans in their fields – and had completed their people's version of schooling.

I tried to argue the latter point, but a stern look from my sister ended that before I could even make ground. She would begin searching for a suitable school to enroll me in immediately and I _would_ attend.

And thus, my training began. My powers were, quite obviously, the domain of my sister. As previously stated, she has mastered these powers to a degree that I can only hope to match; she is the expert in this field.

It wasn't easy; her methods weren't exactly what I had expected. Due to her withdrawn, studious nature, I assumed that most of what we'd be doing would involve copious amounts of reading with some practical application.

Instead, what I got was meditation, a bit of the former and more of the latter. Meditation was the key to finding the inner peace, the inner clarity necessary to wield these powers of mine. Practical application was needed to hone my skills, to help me levitate objects, wield the shadows and phase and teleport through the shadows.

Study, however, was another story. While Raven did maintain its uses, she admitted that it should not be the primary focus when learning the basics. In her words, "What point is there in studying the mechanics on how to open dimensional portals, when you have yet to master a rudimentary ability such as telekinesis?"

Practice was the key. _Perfect_ practice, precision in my abilities, was the key to developing them. Reading from a book would only help so much, my enemies wouldn't be defeated if I impressed them with the theory of trans dimensional portals, they would be defeated by the practical application of that knowledge on the field of battle.

To that end, she would set goals for me to reach, help me in the basics and then tell me to practice as much as I could and be ready to present to her either when she asked or I felt I was prepared.

It was with some shock that I found myself more adept at utilizing my powers. Previously, it took great effort and strain on my body to even teleport (Raven reminds me of the difference between phasing and teleporting constantly), much less lift something as heavy as Victor's car.

No, we didn't use the actual car. Victor had me do what he called a "max weight limit test" to see how much I could lift at the start of training.

More on topic, it felt as though it was coming naturally and I wanted to know why. I'm not alone in this, as each member of the Titans, Raven included, expressed equal amounts shock and interest in this development.

Naturally, Garfield, Victor, Wallace and, interestingly enough, Starfire were prepared to celebrate and take me out on a mission, but Richard and Raven wanted to look into this a bit more before allowing me out into the field. No solid answers came from any of the meditation sessions or tests, except for one possible explanation: my reservation for using them.

My fear of ripping someone apart with barely a thought could, in theory, prevent me from wielding my powers to their fullest capabilities. Perhaps that is part of it, but something tells me that there's more beneath the surface.

Of course, neither Richard nor my sister said anything to prevent the aforementioned group from celebrating, so they threw together a hasty little gathering, which all members of the Titans attended.

Any attempts I might have made to slip out of the commons area and avoid the perils of social interaction were forestalled by a couple of senior members; Garfield in particular caught me no less than three times.

Returning to the topic of training, Richard elected to take me under his wing to work on my hand-to-hand combat techniques. He believed that I had a grasp of some of the basics, but needed some refining in order to use them to my fullest capabilities, and he'd set up a training regiment that would bring me up to par quickly while yielding high results.

All I can say about his training method is that I have bruises on bruises. Prior to even knowing him personally as Richard, I was fully aware that facing Nightwing in hand-to-hand was a fool's errand, the fact that he could effortlessly throw me across the mat or twist me like a pretzel only further accentuated that knowledge.

I'm rather grateful that I'm on his side if what I've been experiencing is his "light" sparring, if you can call anything that Batman's former protégé "light".

To give credit where it is due, I've progressed well, according to Richard, so his training methods seem to be paying off, no matter how harsh they might seem. At least my hard work is going towards something.

Presently, today was supposed to be a day off, a day for Raven and I to relax together and share what she called "quality family time", something she picked up from a book on family dynamics. I recall finding it rather odd that she'd need to consult such a book, but she reminded me that her relationship with our father is less than pleasant, so she really had no basis on how to form a positive relationship with a family member.

Would it surprise you if I mentioned that I felt a pang of guilt for making my older sister admit that she didn't know what the hell to do with me suddenly popping into her life?

Anyway, I say _supposed_ because, just as we stepped into the tearoom, Nightwing called Raven on her communicator, a bank robbery was in progress. Worse, the Hive Five, a group of highly trained super criminals, was behind it. And Raven had to go help fight them.

Given that I'm still technically in training, I am not allowed to go on such missions yet. Raven calmly took her wallet from within the confines of her cloak and handed me a card with the Titans logo. "Take this and buy yourself a drink," she said with a bit of regret. "Either stay here until I get back or call me on the communicator to let me know where you're going, but do not, under any circumstances, follow me into the fight."

I affirmed that I would obey, earning a nod of satisfaction from her and an apology for the interruption before she rushed out and took off into the air.

Although I do appreciate the sentiment behind her apology, as it shows just how much she values our time together, I feel it a bit unnecessary. Of course I'm disappointed that we were interrupted, but I respect that she has an obligation to protect the city and its inhabitants. That is a top priority.

With that being said, following her into battle wasn't an option, no matter how much I wanted to at the moment. Like Garfield said previously, the Hive Five are in another league than the common thugs that I fought across the continent, getting in the way with my minimal training would be very unwise and would do nothing but put myself in danger and cause my sister unnecessary worry. So, ordering a cup of tea and having a nice, quiet drink sounds like a good idea.

Though, I probably should've lowered my hood before stepping up to the counter, that auburn-haired girl was terrified when she saw my glowing green eyes gazing at her from within the shadow of the low hanging black hood.

That's right, I'm not wearing Raven's cloak anymore. For one so ambivalent towards fashion, she was oddly insistent that I have my own wardrobe, a notion that Starfire threw her full support behind.

The mere memory of that day spent at the mall is enough to send a shudder down my spine. I _hate_ shopping. Between having to change into a load of outfits to be judged by my sister and her friend and the embarrassment of my sister picking out a pair of boxers for me to wear, I'll never step foot in a shopping mall ever again.

Well, maybe as long as I'm not forced to shop with a woman, even then, only if I absolutely must.

As for my current outfit, well, I couldn't just keep her cloak. One thing that Raven insisted upon was that I try to be my own person, in other words, she wants me to find myself without trying to imitate her. Yes, learning from her is okay, but copying everything she does would be ridiculous.

I am Harry and she is Raven.

So, she wanted me to figure out my own basic combat uniform, which would either be made for me in house or Richard would help me acquire through his connections (he wouldn't say who). I didn't really have much of an idea at first. All I knew was that I'd grown rather attached to having a hood drawn over my head from my years wearing my old Maple Leafs hoodie, and I did enjoy the symbolic sibling connection that having a cloak gave Raven and I.

I chose black as the color, as it fit with the 'Wraith' moniker, and changed the design of the hood; rather than having the middle come down to a point in the shape of a bird's head, I chose to keep it in the traditional shape and have it hang lower so that the shadow would cover most of my face and give my eyes an even more eerie quality. The material used was the same as Raven's original cloak.

The clasp, however, was a gift from Raven and Victor. They spoke for a bit and made me a rather intricate and thoughtful clasp, somewhat similar to hers. A blue gemstone in silver housing, with the shadow of an eleven-point maple leaf in the middle, was proudly displayed on my left shoulder, paying homage to my beloved sweater as it held my cloak in place.

Under my cloak, I decided on wearing a long-sleeved, black martial arts shirt and pants, to allow for free range of motion during hand-to-hand combat and still maintain my dignity. I don't care what the stereotype is, I refuse to wear spandex. My footwear of choice was a pair of black combat boots; as I discovered in training, you only need to feel Richard stomping on your foot with his own pair once before you realize that trainers won't be suitable in this field.

Raven nearly threw a table at him for breaking two of my toes that day, but Garfield and I managed to calm her down. And by calm her down, I mean divert her attention to the fact that she could easily heal me with her powers. Fortunately, it was enough to convince her not to maim our leader, but something told me that she wasn't muttering a healing spell under her breath she repaired my bones.

For now, this outfit is just my training uniform. I may change it later by adding some form of padding or armor, or I may discard the martial arts gear entirely.

The girl behind the counter approaches with a steaming cup of tea, still shaking from the fright I've given her. I pull back the hood of my cloak, revealing my face, and accept the beverage from her trembling, well-manicured hands. I mutter my thanks and turn away, making for a small table in the corner, deliberately picking it out as the one most out of the line of sight from casual glances.

Despite all of the positive interactions I've had with my sister and various members of the Titans, I still find it rather difficult to interact socially with those I'm unfamiliar with. It just seems so awkward to me, so… alien. Perhaps it's just not in my character to go out of my way to meet or be seen by new people, a product of my years on the road, one might say.

The tearoom itself is somewhat of a local hangout for teens and young adults, as I've learned from past visits with Raven. Often times, groups of friends come in to chat away about school or sports or how annoying their parents are being, oblivious to those around them.

Honestly, if you ever want to get information, just go to the local hangouts and sit quietly in the back corner of the room. You'll hear everything. Of course, whether or not it's useful information is up for debate.

But my intent is not to learn why some muscle bound high school boy thought about the skirt that one of the blond cheerleaders two tables over from mine wore yesterday, I just chose this location to enjoy my tea in relative peace without interruption or that tingling feeling that someone is staring at me for whatever reason. Here I can enjoy my tea in relative peace.

I close my eyes and revel in the calming scent of the hot tea, raising the cup to my lips as I patiently wait for my sister to return. I've no doubts that she will, the Teen Titans are more than capable of handling the Hive Five, as they've done time and time again. She and the rest of the team will overcome whatever obstacles are put in their way with their combined strengths, and they will make sure that each member returns to the Cave.

I may have been anxious the first several times that I was left to wait within the base as they battled various criminals, but my worries were, mercifully, unfounded each time.

The slightly bitter taste of the herbs is just as soothing as Raven described the first time we visited several weeks ago. They clear the mind and ease whatever stress the current situation has caused me. It's just the sort of therapy I need; it curbs my annoyance and makes me less likely to lash out at those around me, which, in turn, makes it less likely for me to lose control of my ever-dangerous powers.

Peace, calm, control. Three simple words, all giving me the focus and clarity to go about my day without worry that I might hurt someone. One might say that this is meditation of a different sort entirely. Rather than absolute silence and focus, I can just sit, relax and let my mind wander a bit as the ambient sound becomes nothing more than background noise.

"Well now, don't you look nice and relaxed?" A light, teasing voice with a hint of accent jolts me out of my moment of Zen and back into the world of the living. Sitting directly across from me, sipping at her own cup and wearing a grin that would make the Cheshire Cat proud, was a girl who looked to be about my age.

Two things stood out: her hair and eyes. Both were the most shocking pink you might imagine, even her eyebrows were, right down to the roots. Her hair was about medium length, and was tied in a high ponytail, trailing down to her shoulders. As for her eyes, well, I'm not sure which I could say was more gripping. Pink irises were rare enough, especially that shade, but her pupils were slanted, almost like those of a cat!

Her skin is pale, almost grey, just a touch darker than Raven's, and seems almost immaculately smooth. The outfit she is wearing is odd, even by my standards. In all honesty, that black top with long, wide brimmed sleeves, and low cut collar would be better suited on a girl dressed as a witch at a costume party.

All of these observations take a moment or two to make sense, before it clicks; I've seen her face in the Teen Titans' database. Formerly of the Hive Crime Organization and ex-leader of the Hive Five, she was once one of the most dangerous enemies of the team. Her ability to wield magic to manipulate probability (bad luck magic, some might call it) has the potential to do unimaginable amounts of damage in populated areas, a danger that is well documented.

Jinx. Of all people, Jinx just sat down across from me.

The grinning sorceress leans back in her chair, pausing to take a sip of her own tea, before continuing her greeting to me. "So, little miss sunshine trusts you enough to give you the team credit card, huh?" she asked, giving me a half-lidded look to go along with her grin. "Getting cozy with the Titans' blackbird?"

I raise an eyebrow, withholding my indignation at someone insinuating that my sister and I would ever engage in such a relationship to allow her to laugh at her own joke and take another sip of her tea. Yet another thing Raven taught me, wait for the opportune moment before delivering a surprise. In the most deadpan tone I can muster, I reply. "She's my sister."

The sight of her eyes bulging and the previously smirking former criminal choking and sputtering as she nearly inhales the beverage shouldn't amuse me, but I can't help but feel a bit smug as she wipes herself off with a napkin and shakes herself from her stupor.

"Your what?" she hisses, cautiously glancing over her shoulder at the group two tables behind her, as if afraid they might overhear. Oddly enough, she's looking straight into my eyes, trying to search them for any hint of falsehood.

Only now has it hit me that she's been looking me in the eye since the moment she sat down at the table, not even so much as flinching when my gaze focused on her. But while Raven and the other Titans did so initially as a gesture of faith, with one or two showing a hint of nervousness the first few times they met my gaze, Jinx shows no fear.

Through my empathy, I don't feel any fear coming from her as she stares into my eyes. It's so very odd, and so very intriguing.

"Sister," I repeat, deciding to play along and see what she wants. "Raven is my sister."

After a beat, the playful smirk is back on her face again. "Well, if that isn't irony, I don't know what is," Jinx says with a light chuckle, as if sharing a private joke with herself, and pausing to take a sip of her tea.

Blinking in confusion, I regard her through narrowed eyes and wait, silently prompting her to elaborate further. I fail to see how the revelation that Raven is my sister after a rather poorly timed joke is ironic. She stares back at me, leaning forward and playfully widening her eyes and tilting her head as if to ask "What".

Somehow I get the feeling that getting any information out of her is going to be like pulling teeth. "How is Raven being my sister ironic?"

This time, it's Jinx who blinks in confusion. The smile vanishes from her face, which begins to take on a whole new expression. I feel multiple emotions rolling off of her in waves, confusion, fear and, surprisingly, anger.

Why would my confusion cause her anger?

"What?" she hisses.

"How is it ironic?" I repeat. "The fact that your joke was in poor taste doesn't make this revelation ironic, I am asking how you feel that it is."

Her anger is now more intense, and is now quite visible on her face. Her grip on the cup tightens as her hands begin to shake. "How do you not know?" She demands. "How can you not know?"

"You aren't making sense. How can I not know what?"

"Why it's ironic!" Jinx shouts, drawing everyone's attention. "Think about it, think of the irony! Raven is your sister! Raven and the 'heavenly one'! Ring any bells?"

"Jinx, I strongly suggest you start making sense," I warn her. She's treading in dangerous territory right now if she's going where I think she is.

The pink-haired sorceress flinches visibly, her anger giving way briefly to horror. "What did you call me?" she whispers, her face paling further as she places the cup down and leans forward.

This girl doesn't make any bloody sense! "Jinx. I called you Jinx, your alias. The only name on any record, on any file, even in the Titans' database, that anyone has ever called you by."

"Really?" Jinx asks, her eyes narrowing as she leans closer, her nose almost touching mine. "Everyone?"

I stay silent, unsure of how to reply. What exactly is she looking for? It's not like she can possibly expect me to pull her name out of thin air because she may or may not have told someone in the past. What is even the point of this?

Before I can formulate a response, her patience runs out. "Say it," she demands heatedly.

"Excuse me?"

"Say. It." She grinds out. "Say it!"

Oh, wonderful, she's even angrier than before. I rack my brain, trying to come up with some solution. What was it that Garfield likes to say? Humor is the best way to diffuse a bad situation? Yes, that's it. Maybe he's right. Cold logic isn't working and she did start this conversation with a joke, maybe humor is the best way to reach her.

"Okay," I say solemnly, earning a look of relief from the angry sorceress. "It."

Judging by the nearly nuclear explosion of rage I felt from her, that wasn't the way to go.

"_What_?!" she shrieks. I wince as her eyes glow pink and her teacup shatters, spilling the hot beverage all over the table.

Maybe I should try one more time. Maybe if I explain the joke, Garfield's advice will work. "You said 'say it'," I reply. "So, I said 'it'."

The sound of cracking glass in front of me attracts my attention downwards, where I find that my cup has now shattered as well. Clearly, the lesson here is to never follow Garfield's advice. Ever. I've been unwittingly playing with dynamite the entire time, and now I'm dealing with the explosion.

Her lips form into a snarl of rage as her hands grip the table. "That's not what I meant, damn it! Say it! Say my name!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you further, I was trying to follow a friend's advice –"

"I don't want to hear your excuses! Say my name!"

Okay, now I'm getting annoyed. Scratch that, I'm getting angry. This little act has gone on long enough. "And I told you to make sense, _Jinx_!"

She flinches again, her look of fury shifting with one of despair. "No! That's not it! Say _my_ name!"

"I don't bloody know your name!" I snap, finally giving into my irritation with this infuriating girl. "I don't know _you_! What the bloody hell do you want from me?"

A heavy silence falls over the two of us as I breathe heavily, trying to calm myself before I lose control. As I look into her pink, catlike eyes, I feel a stab of guilt as I see a pained look.

I've hurt her. Somehow, I've cut deep into her. In all the reports I've read, the only time Jinx ever showed remorse for her actions was when she switched sides. Never once has she shown this level of emotional turmoil.

"Why?" she asks, her voice sounds heavily strained, giving light to the pain mixed with her anger. "Why don't you remember me?"

Blood turns to ice in my veins as her question registers with me. Hope's words echo deep in the recesses of my mind in unison with the furious girl's voice, creating a cacophony within my head.

"Uh, excuse me?" The two of us turn in unison to face the skittish barista from earlier, and predictably flinches from us. "Uh, I'm really, _really_ sorry, but my manager wants me to ask the two of you to leave. You're disturbing the other guests, so…. Uh… Sorry!"

Perfect. Raven will be so thrilled with me for getting thrown out of one of her favorite hangouts. But that's a problem for later. Right now, I'm dealing with a rather offended, and quite furious, sorceress who seems to think that I know her.

I'm sure my sister will understand if I put this as my top priority.

Jinx sends me one final glare, before standing with a huff. "Fine," she snaps. "I can see I wasted my time coming here, anyway!"

She tries to walk away, but I'm faster. I phase through the table and step in front of her, cutting off her exit route. "You aren't going anywhere until you explain yourself!"

"I'm not the one who forgot!" She sneers. "Figure it out yourself and come find me when you remember!"

"I wasn't asking you, I was ordering you. You will tell me."

"You want me to tell you something? Fine. Fuck off!" Like lightning, her right hand flies up in an open-hand slap, I easily catch her wrist in my left hand, and then her follow up in my right. "Let me go!" She demands, twisting her wrists attempting to break my hold.

Instead, I pull her closer and begin to summon my powers. "I'm so tired of people not telling me what I want to know!" I snarl, bringing my face inches from hers.

"Um, excuse me?" Oh, she's still here? "I really need you to –"

"We are," I reply shortly. "Immediately." As I speak, our shadows begin to crawl up our legs, engulfing us in darkness.

Jinx's eyes widen in comprehension. "No! Don't you dare!"

Too late.

**LINE BREAK**

Taking Jinx back to the Cave would've been ideal, but I'm not able to teleport quite that far yet. There's only one other place I would feel comfortable enough to hold this conversation, the very same place I came before I had the Cave.

St. Juan Diego Church. A demon seeking solace in a holy place, a place of peace.

Immediately as we materialize, Jinx moves. Before I can even react, she has me flat on my back with one hand on my throat, the other pinning the hand that I'd grabbed her wrist with. Grudgingly, I'm forced to admit that I've lost control of the situation. Now, she has me at her mercy.

"I hate it when you do that!" She hisses, glaring at me through those catlike eyes. She leans back, using her momentum to nimbly stand up and pulling me to my feet with ease, even using the hand which was previously gripping my throat to steady me.

We silently regard one another for a moment, each waiting for the opportunity to make the next move. I need to be more careful here, she just pinned me after what should have been a disorienting teleportation for her. I thought I had taken her to a place where I would be comfortable, where she would be caught off balance.

Instead, she has the advantage. And she knows it.

Jinx sighs and rolls her eyes. "I guess I can let that one go. I needed you alone anyways."

I feel my muscles tense at her admission. This was planned? She _wanted_ me alone with her? I narrow my eyes at her, focusing all of my empathic ability to read her emotions from this point onward. I don't want to miss a trick. "Are you working with the Hive Five again?" I demand. "Was their robbery today a trick so you could lure my sister away?"

"No," she replies firmly, countering with a glare of her own. "I'm done with the Hive. Completely. I've been working alone lately, to find you. Today just worked out in my favor, so I took the chance."

"I find that rather hard to believe."

"Really? All that ability to sense emotion and you doubt my honesty?" She openly mocks me.

I clench my hands into fists within my cloak in annoyance. Stay calm. Stay in control. "You seem to have quite a bit of knowledge of my abilities."

"You don't say?"

"And just how did you come by that knowledge?"

"I'm not the one on trial here," she snaps, eyes glowing pink once again as her anger begins to call her powers forth. "I'm not the one who forgot!"

I release a bit of my own powers, causing my irises to glow even brighter, a sign that I'm about to use my infamous stare. "And I am tired of people keeping information from me!" I bark. "You can either tell me or I will force you!"

Jinx's eyes stop glowing, which leaves her glaring defiantly without any sign of fear. "I'd like to see you try, _Wraith_!"

"Don't try to play this game with me," I warn her. "I don't fool around."

"Then what's stopping you?" She demands, bringing her face closer to mine and locking eyes with me challengingly. "Do it!"

Fine. With a snort of anger, I let loose a small blast of my powers, just enough for me to break into her mind and find her worst fears. I only plan to give her a small dose, just enough to startle her. There's no need to trap her in a never-ending nightmare, she has information that I need. I wonder what a former villainess with such an infamous reputation as hers would fear. Punishment for her past crimes?

No, that would be too simple, and it would've stopped her from switching sides. The first thing she'd done was turn herself over to the Titans and offer them information, she even allowed Raven to trap her in several magical barriers and allowed M'gann to enter her mind to verify. Retribution would be too simple for her.

Wait… Why don't I know her fear? I should've broken through by now! My focus shifts from the mental images I _should_ be getting and back to her eyes.

Her _glowing green eyes_! My heart stops as I gaze into the same sickly green irises that I've hated for most of my life, now bordering Jinx's catlike pupils. What in the name of Azar is this?

"Impossible," I stammer, stopping my powers.

Jinx takes this opportunity to revel in my surprise, smirking triumphantly at me as her eyes change from sickly green to pink again. "What's wrong? Can't believe someone beat you at your own game?"

I shake off my stupor and take a step towards her. "How did you do that?" I demand. "No one can block my powers! Not even my sister!"

"Well, maybe I'm special then!" She crows, bringing her face closer to mine, her eyes boring deep into my own, searching for something. "You really don't remember?"

"I've told you, I don't know who you are," I say with exasperation. I hold my hand up, stopping her oncoming tirade in its tracks. "I'm sorry."

Jinx actually stands speechless for a moment. "_What_?"

"I'm sorry," I repeat sincerely. "I really don't remember. I've forgotten a lot of things, I don't even know what or who I might have lost because of it."

"How?" She demands, sounding a bit more shocked and dismayed than angry, which is reaffirmed by the sudden shift in emotions that I'm picking up. "How could you forget everything? Especially… especially something like this?" She motions to her eyes as she finishes, clearly referring to her inexplicable ability to block my entrance into her mind.

Her sentiment is shared; I'm quite interested into how I managed to forget my apparent connection with her, I'm even more interested as to what would cause me to want to forget. "I don't know. It's all just… gone."

I can't help but feel a sense of guilt as her shoulders slump slightly and her eyes fall to the floor. More to the point, I am quite curious to know exactly what past we shared together for this to have such an effect on her.

Suddenly, her shoulders begin to shake. Oh. Oh, dear. I've actually made her cry.

Say what you will about my cold, machine like mindset, I'm not heartless. I really don't like watching people suffer. Well, other than the criminals I've beaten down, but they don't really count.

No. Bad. That's the kind of thinking that got me into this state. That kind of simplistic thinking is what numbed my emotions and made me so cruel.

Feeling no shortage of remorse, I awkwardly turn my gaze elsewhere, settling on, of all things, the large effigy of Jesus the Christ hanging on the cross, directly over the alter. Perhaps due to some trick of the light in combination with where we're standing in the middle of the aisle, it appears as if he is looking down on us, watching us sort out with our problems.

Well, so much for trying to dispel the awkwardness.

I turn my gaze back to the shaking sorceress, desperately hoping that she's not about to break down in front of me. Despite all attempts by Garfield and Victor to teach me how to handle emotional victims, I haven't the faintest idea how to comfort a crying girl when I'm the root of the problem. I honestly would prefer trying to disarm a bomb.

Jinx finally looks up and, to my surprise, shoots me another one of her Cheshire Cat grins, coupled with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Oddly enough, I pick up a sense of amusement and excitement emanating from her, a rather drastic shift from the utter dismay from just a few short seconds ago.

"You don't remember anything?" She asks, voice light and teasing, just like when she first sat down at my table in the tearoom. I nod in affirmation, which is met with a widening of that grin. "Then _this_ is going to be fun!"

That is most certainly not what I expected from her. "I fail to see how my loss of memory makes this 'fun' for either of us," I say dryly.

She giggles impishly at my reply and steps forward with all the confidence she's infamous for. "Oh, it'll be plenty of fun," she coos. "For me. Like I said earlier, I wanted to get you alone and, even if it didn't go quite as I'd hoped, I succeeded because of something that has _always _bugged you."

"And that is?" Now she has me genuinely interested.

"You _hate_ not knowing things," she crows. "You obsess over finding the answers to every question that someone puts in front of you, even if it makes no sense."

"I fail to see how that works to your advantage."

Jinx gives me a look of mock surprise. "Really? Then let me put it another way," She shoots me another grin and singsongs. "_I know something you don't_!"

The deadpan look I shoot her earns another laugh in response. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous you're being?" I ask, not bothering to hide my annoyance. "You would save both of us an enormous amount of time and aggravation if you simply helped me remember. Then, perhaps, we could sort this entire thing out."

"That's where you're wrong. It would save _you_ an enormous amount of time and aggravation," she points out. "I, on the other hand, can have plenty of fun with this because it hits on another one of your little pet peeves."

"Which is?"

"That you expect everything to have some logical reason and, when something doesn't fit within the little imaginary box you've constructed, you go spare trying to find a way to make sense of it!"

If my heart wasn't racing before, it sure as hell is now. She's absolutely right. How can she know that about me? The only ones who know that are the Titans, and they only figured that out after me living among them for a full month!

"What do you expect to gain out of this?" I demand testily. "I've expressed my sorrow to you and admitted my own fault in the matter, so what is it you want from me?"

She steps even closer, invading my personal space without fear and looking straight into my eyes. "I don't expect to gain anything that I didn't have before," she answers confidently. "I just want to have a bit of fun with an old friend."

"And how do you expect me to believe you, given your history? How do I know I can trust you?" A look of hurt and remorse flashes across her face, before she regains control and resumes her cheeky grin. I've touched on something, but she's not going to give it to me that easily.

"You have a point," she admits as she leans closer to me, once again bringing her nose just inches from mine. "You don't have a reason to trust me at all. So, I'll be nice. I'll tell you something that'll show you just how much you used to trust me. In fact, I'll take it a step further and tell you how much you mean to me. Sound fair?"

Her offer is too enticing to pass up. I can't force her to give me all of the information I want at once, but she's at least offering me a small taste of her knowledge. "Very well, tell me."

If possible, that grin of hers widens further and those pink, catlike eyes gleam with something else. I feel a new emotion emanating from her, one I'm not familiar with. As she draws nearer, I feel her hands being lightly placed on my shoulders, causing me to look down in surprise.

That brief opening was all she needed. Her arms are suddenly around my neck, with a light jerk downward, she pulls me off balance and towards her.

I blink in surprise as I feel a new sensation, the feeling of soft lips being pressed against my own. I gape in surprise, staring into the sorceress' half-lidded eyes. I feel her arms pull me in tighter as she slowly closes her eyes and lets out a deep sigh of happiness. Finally, it dawns on me: she's _kissing_ me.

What?

What?

_What?_

All thought processes come to a screeching, sudden halt. My mind is completely blank as it tries to register that this girl is actually kissing me. Me! It doesn't make sense! This entire meeting has made little logical sense to begin with, but _this is completely illogical_.

Pushing her away comes to mind for about a split second, before that thought is shot down entirely by the even more odd realization that this action and the strange sensation of warmth that it has caused to well up in my chest is rather pleasant. Certainly a better experience than when I'm left to ponder my typically depressing inner thoughts.

How in the world is this girl able to get away with touching me so intimately without fear of violence? More to the point, how is she capable of bringing out these strange feelings in me despite the fact that I can't even bloody remember her name?

And, more importantly still, I never realized that a girl's lips were so… soft.

Before I can fully bring my mind out of this haze and decide on an appropriate response, Jinx pulls away and opens her eyes, which seem to shine with amusement as my mouth hangs open in surprise. She laughs at my stunned silence, obviously pleased with the results of her actions, and leans in again, this time bringing her mouth nearer to my ear.

She whispers three words, my heart stops beating.

Jinx draws back again and giggles at my expression, pausing a moment to quickly lean in and give me another quick peck on my cheek, before dropping her arms to the side and walking around me, making for the door.

The sound of her footsteps echoing throughout the empty Church doesn't even register as my breathing becomes more erratic and my heartbeat seems to pound in my ears. I hear a snap of her fingers and the click of a door unlocking from afar, followed by another teasing, impish giggle, as she pushes the door open with a loud creak and steps out into the sunlight.

I don't move, I don't even think to give chase to the girl who holds all the answers, the girl who claims to have some connection with me. I don't understand, how is this possible? How is any of this possible?

Those words, three simple words, echo nonstop in my ears, taunting me with their implications, the hidden truths that are so close, but so far out of reach. Knowledge that only Jinx has, knowledge that she refuses to share with me until she sees fit.

Three words. She took my breath away with a kiss and then stopped my heart with three words.

"_Allons-y, Harry!_"

She knows my name.

**Chapter End**


	10. The Girl Who Knows

**Disclaimer****: I do not own the **_**Harry Potter**_** series or DC comics, nor do I claim rights to their characters.**

**Chapter 10: The Girl Who Knows**

Who is she? Who is she? Who the actual _fuck_ is she?

I have scoured every database available, exhausted every resource in the Cave, hell, I had Richard show me how to do the Bat family's specialty: the ultra thorough background check with cross-references in international criminal databases and the like.

When asked why I mentioned Jinx's name in particular, I put on my most innocent expression and lied, stating that I'd seen her name pop up a couple of times in the Titans' in-house database and wanted to find out more about her.

But I digress.

Nothing. There was _nothing_ about her other than her alias, powers, past crimes and affiliations.

No place of birth, no school records, no medical records, nothing! Not a goddamn thing in any database! For all intents and purposes, Jinx didn't exist until five years ago. It was like she'd fallen from the sky or, more appropriately, crawled from the pits of hell and compiled a rather impressive list of crimes in a short time.

Ever heard of a nine-year-old holding a government official hostage? She'd done it. Defraud a major credit card company? Jinx pulled that off thrice when she was ten. Knocked out the security system at the Social Security Department and stole the Social Security numbers of American citizens? I'll give you three guesses. The first two don't count.

I suppose the irony in all of this is so thick that Garfield, Victor and Wallace could spread it over one of those gargantuan sandwiches they devour.

The similarities between our origins haven't gone unnoticed by me. While showing me the art of computer hacking, Richard told me about the search for information on me from his side. His frustration – and grudging respect – for my evasiveness had gone on for weeks as he seemed to exhaust all resources in searching for some scruffy little kid with glowing eyes.

And now that scruffy little kid is dealing with the same frustration in his frantic search for some annoyingly perky girl with pink hair and catlike eyes and a talent for mischief.

What does it say when one of two resident half-demons feels that this is _too_ eerie?

My point is that she, much like myself, doesn't have a bloody history prior to five years ago. Yes, I'm fully aware that this is getting repetitive, but there is a point that I'm trying to drive home.

Six years ago, Jinx and Wraith didn't exist to the rest of the world. Then, all the sudden, we appeared out of nowhere; I crossed an ocean in a bout of accidental teleportation and enacted my own brand of vigilantism, she seemed to materialize out of thin air and went on a crime spree that would have leaders of crime syndicates around the world frothing at the mouth at the opportunity to have her join their group.

We stepped into the light roughly around the same time, her debut on the world stage coming a mere six months after my first act that night in Montréal.

If I haven't made this plainly clear, allow me to spell it out: I've established that we began on our respective paths roughly around the same time, given that she claims to have known me at some point, I can conclude that we either came to know each other during various fights or – in the most unlikely case – we knew each other _before_ she started committing crimes.

Upon reflection, Jinx's voice did carry a hint of an accent, definitely one of the French dialects, but, as she only said three words in that tongue, I can't draw any conclusion as to where she might be from. With that being said, there is a very real possibility that Jinx is Québécoise, a Quebecker.

Ipso facto, it is entirely possible that she was a part of my past. A part of my beginning.

Just the implications in what she said, the thinly veiled hinting that she knew things about me. That she had some sort of intimate knowledge of my past was enough to drive me mad.

The fact that she knows my name, my _real_ name!

Eleven. That is the total number of people to whom I have freely given my name, in doing so I have put all my faith in them. To coin a phrase, I am "all in" on this group.

I don't count _those people_ in England. No. I didn't give my name to them; I don't put my trust in them.

The only reason they have knowledge that Harry Potter exists is due to certain circumstances out of my control: namely that a certain woman apparently had a run in with Trigon and allowed a child she never wanted to be brought into this world.

If I could find a way, if there was the slightest possibility of erasing my life in England, I would do so without hesitation.

I prefer the widely held notion that I crawled from the deepest pits of hell, emerging in some back alley in Montréal and preying on the pain and fears of my victims. At least then, I would be able to claim my past as my own.

At least then, I wouldn't lay awake at night, brooding over the knowledge that _they_ know of my existence.

Oh, but Jinx made it worse. And she delights in it.

She knows me, and claims that _I_ know her well enough to know her name. Ludicrous! Of any person in this world, Jinx is quite possibly the only one my age to have matched my ability to keep my identity a secret without the resources that Batman's protégés have at their disposal.

Both of us came from nothing but managed to evade capture, slipping through our enemies' fingers like smoke.

That she knows my name and claims that I know hers… the implications are too great to ignore.

Everything changed; this was an entirely new game. It wasn't just that we knew each other in passing or that we had a run in or two. No, no, no. We _knew_ one another. Closely.

She had made it as plain as day: we weren't Jinx and the Wraith, two kids on opposite sides of the law. No. We were _someone_ to one another. We had _something_.

We were Harry and… and…

But that's just it. I don't remember her. Until she sat across from me in that tearoom, I didn't even know that I'd met her.

My world was instantly shattered. Call me melodramatic if you will, but think of it from my point of view. I've kept careful guard over the details of my past, only giving little bits and pieces of information to those I trust. Not even Raven knows the full story.

I thought I'd kept it safe.

I was wrong.

No. Not just wrong. My past, my memories, they weren't whole. My memories are false. All of it a lie!

A lie that I, myself, crafted because, as Timid stated, "it hurts". What hurts?

Assuming that Jinx was sincere, what could hurt someone so much that they would willingly forget the one person they trusted with their name? What could make someone like me, someone who had nothing, discard the memories of the one person he called friend?

What does that mean for me now?

What else is a lie? What else have I tricked myself into believing? Have I been attacking criminals for my own enjoyment rather than a perceived calling for justice? Have I abused my powers, broken people's minds, simply because I could, rather than because I, at one point, honestly believed that they deserved such punishment? Or worse, dear Azar, what if…

What if the Dursleys… What if I've lied to myself about _them_? No, that's impossible! I can remember it all!

That's wrong. I've already established that my memories aren't completely true! What if what I remember _now_ isn't what I really remember? What if…

No. No, no, no, no, no! I refuse to entertain that thought! It's absurd! What happened to them… what happened that night… it was an accident! I remember! I pulled Dudley from the wreckage of their house! I may have hated them, I may have wished to run, but I would _never_ have wanted that to happen to them! I couldn't have! I remember! I remember!

Don't I?

Damn that girl! This is entirely her fault!

As if I didn't have enough mental issues, as if I weren't still struggling to adjust to the novelty of having someone actually give the slightest of a damn about my wellbeing, Jinx just _had_ to come in and send everything into disarray.

Hardly a surprise; this is just what she does. Everything about her, from the way she fights to her style of dress, is designed to put people off balance, putting all the power in her hands. Everything and anything she can use against you, she will. With that annoying, impish grin and a heart full of mischief, she excelled at her craft.

It goes without saying that she would take great pleasure in knowing how unsettled she'd made me. Hell, I'd be more surprised if she weren't laughing herself silly, knowing full well that I'd taken the bait, hook, line and sinker, and was frantically trying to uncover the truth about her. Just as she predicted.

Damn. That. Bitch!

I'm convinced that she has made it her personal mission to send me completely over the deep end. Why else would she openly dangle our past relationship in front of me like a carrot, only to pull it away as I reached for it?

I feel like the dog who ran halfway across the park after the ball, only to realize that my blasted owner never threw the bloody thing; it's still in her damn hand and she's laughing her pink ponytail off!

With a snarl, I swipe my hand across my desk, sending pens, books and papers scattering to the floor with a loud crash and rustle of pages. "Who the bloody _fuck_ is she?"

"I'd like to know that as well," I nearly jumped, biting back a curse as I turn, finding Raven standing at my door, arms crossed over her chest as she gave me a stern look, no doubt displeased with my little tantrum and choice of language. Her timing is, as usual, impeccable; she always seems to know exactly when my moods are worst. "You were broadcasting your frustrations again." Ah. Well, that would do it.

I haven't exactly been discrete about my mood lately. Hell, Garfield was even starting to grow concerned, and, from what I've seen, he has all the observational skill of a brick when it comes to reading emotions.

Case in point: how does one _not_ realize that it's a good time to _shut up_ when my sister's eyes are glowing pure white and the furniture is suddenly giving gravity the one-fingered salute?

Or when Conner is trying his best to hide behind something? _That_ was a sight to see. The mountain of muscles masquerading as a kryotonian teen trying to make himself scarce. I can only imagine how much a tabloid would've paid for that photo.

Returning to the subject at hand, Raven saw through my frustrations the day I came back from that tearoom. To her credit, she didn't swoop down and smother me, demanding to know what had caused my mood to shift from (relatively) happy to dour. She at least tried to give me a bit of space, offering to talk whenever I was ready.

She probably expected me to wait a day at most, since I've come to trust her decidedly more than I had when first meeting her. And she probably had no idea that my irritation was connected by something – or rather, some_one_ – from my past.

Then one day became two. Two became three. And so on. Judging by the expression on her face – and what I'm feeling from her – 'letting Harry cool off' time is up. 'Heart-to-heart family talk' time is now.

Now, this might seem a bit odd, so consider this: we're both empaths. Raven has been feeling my anger radiating off of me for the past seven days with very little break. After all, my room is right next to hers.

So, if someone you loved was sitting in their room, seething over something they refused to tell you and you could _feel_ that emotion constantly, how long would you let that go?

Probably not nearly as long as she has. For that, I appreciate her efforts to let me address my issues on my own.

However, just because I can understand _why_ she's decided that it's time to talk, doesn't mean I'm in the mood to do so.

"We need to talk," See? I'm starting to catch on. Either unaware of or willfully ignoring my sigh of annoyance, Raven pressed on. "You've been increasingly agitated this week, more so than any of us have seen since you first came to live in the Cave."

"I'm fine," I insist for the umpteenth time. "Just something I need to work through on my own."

Empathy isn't necessary to tell me that she's quite thoroughly fed up with that particular reply. "You've been 'working through it' for a full week, Harry," she chides, sounding a bit tired of the argument; one that we've had at regular intervals over the past couple of days. Believe me, she's not alone on that front. "I'm worried for you, everyone is! Hell, even Conner made mention of putting you through some sort of training in hopes that it'll provide a physical release for you!"

No amount of past conditioning can repress a shudder at the mere thought of going through one of Conner's training sessions. No. Just no. Actually, that's wrong.

I'd sooner stick a hot lance through my eyeball than participate in one of those sessions.

"I appreciate his sentiment, but I'll pass." Dear Azar, do I ever pass. "Like I said, I'm fine. I'll figure it out on my own."

Judging by the narrowing of her eyes, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that's not what she wanted to hear. "Not going to cut it," she replied. "Other than training, you've been obsessing over whoever this girl is. Whatever she did to bother you, whatever she said, has been nagging at you all week."

"For legitimate reasons."

"Which you refuse to divulge."

"Because I am handling it on my own!"

"No you're not!" Raven snapped, eyes flashing in anger. "You've locked yourself in your room and hidden away, seething over whatever this girl said to you!"

Helping me or not, I'm _not_ in the mood for this. "Not like you were much better!" I retort. "From what Garfield says, seeing you out of your room used to be a sign that winter was over in this country!"

If she wasn't angry with me before, she certainly is now. "_I_ lived with the premonition that Armageddon would occur on my sixteenth birthday hanging over my head since the day I was born! You've been locked away because of something a teenage girl said to you over tea!"

"Oh, well, in that case, just _excuse me_ for not having news that the world is about to end for you! I'll be sure to hold off on feeling anything other than _sunshine and bloody rainbows_ around you!"

"Don't put words in my mouth! I'm not asking you to close off your emotions, especially not after all the stupid stunts Garfield and Victor went through to get you to laugh _once_!" Her hands are shaking, fists closed tightly and knuckles white with strain. If I were in a more stable frame of mind, I might worry that she were either about to lash out or cry in frustration. The latter is extremely unlikely, but still…

Ce serai pas bien.

"Well, don't make it sound like nothing short of the end times justifies wanting a bit of time to sort myself out!"

"If you would just sit down and talk with me about it, I might be able to help rather than speculate! For all any of us know, she made a comment about your eyes –"

"What's wrong with my eyes?" She said they made me unique! The hell is this where suddenly they expect people to start talking bad about them?

Naturally, this draws a reunion between her palm and face. "_Nothing_!" she groans with no shortage of irritation. "For the love of Azar, nothing is wrong with your eyes! I – _we_ know that you can be a bit sensitive about… well, about people's reaction to them."

"I am not!"

"Of course not," she deadpans, much to my annoyance. "That's not the point! We don't know why you've isolated yourself!"

"For good reason!" I cut her off. "If I wanted you to know, I'd tell you!"

"And if I wasn't a concerned sibling, I wouldn't be worried that my brother had reverted to a damn hermit because of some random girl!"

That did it! "She's not some random bloody girl!" I shout, slamming my hands on my desk. Both of us jump as a loud bang erupts from above us; I groan in frustration and put my face in my hands as the sound of a ceiling fan crashing to the floor reaches my ears.

Damn it all, that's the fourth one!

Deep breaths. Just like Raven taught me: take deep breaths, count to ten (or higher, if Garfield is involved), and think pleasant thoughts.

A note: strangling Hope is a surprisingly cathartic thought. Feel free to try it sometime.

Gritting my teeth, I speak in a strained tone, barely hidden irritation lacing my voice. "Just… let me handle it, Raven," I manage to grit out.

Irritation has given way to concern, my tone has, no doubt, shown her just how affected by this problem than I've been willing to admit, both to myself and to my friends. More importantly, it's affected me more than I've admitted to my sister. In a way, she's right: I'm reverting back to the way I was before we met.

And that worries her, so very much.

The more I try to push her away, to separate her from this issue, the more she is inclined to look deeper. Why? Because I'm her brother, her _little_ brother. For once in my life, I'm in the odd position of being, for all intents and purposes, the _baby_ of the family.

She makes as if to speak, but I hold a hand up to stop her. Closing down my computer screen and locking the account, I take a deep breath and try to speak as calmly as possible. "Look, I… I know I've been difficult as of late. I know that I've been moody… well, moodier than usual, but this is something I have to figure out for myself! If what she said to me was true, then she's the key to figuring out what parts of my past Hope was talking about when we visited my soul."

Raven closes her eyes and lets out a sigh of frustration. "I know. I know you have to find the answer yourself, I know how much you hate having someone play with your mind in such a way – and on that, I sympathize with you – I _know_! I just… Confound it, I just wish you would let me help you through this!"

"You have helped me –" I begin, hoping to reassure her.

"Clearly not enough!" She cuts me off, building up a head of steam. I try to stop her, but she speaks over me. "I know, I know I'm new to this 'sibling relationship'… _thing_. The only 'family bonding' I've ever done was give our father a face full of my psychic power, so, perhaps I am handling this wrong. I shouldn't have left you alone in that tearoom, I should've been more –"

"Stop. _Now_!" I snap, struggling not to blow something else up in irritation. "You are not to blame! Neither of us have a bloody clue how to handle this relationship! This entire month has been us trying to understand just what the hell to do with this! And, for the love of Azar, I _know_ you want to help! I just… can't let you. I'm sorry, but I can't."

There's only one way to describe what my empathy is picking up, there's no other word for it other than this: rejection. The pain of a loved one refusing you in some capacity. It can be refusal to acknowledgement, ignoring an accomplishment, or, in this case, openly stating that their aid is unwanted.

It's a feeling I know quite well…

"Why?" Just hearing how strained her voice is almost breaks my will to keep quiet, to keep her out of this.

"You know why," I say, doing my best not to sound condescending out of respect. "You heard what Hope said: I don't remember all of my past. I forgot things, a lot of things. Not just that, but I _wanted_ to forget! Based on that, I'm not sure who I really am anymore…"

"Harry –"

"Hear me out a moment: Everything about me is based on what I know of my past. Everything, my world view, my self-image, my moral code, all of it was based on things I've experienced. And, what? Now I find out that I'm missing crucial pieces! What if those pieces negate what I think I know? What if I was _worse_ than I – we – thought when you first found me?"

"Harry, please don't think like –"

"Or worse, what if everything I know, everything that I _am_ is a lie? What if… what if… Oh, Azar, what if it turned out that… well, that we're not –"

"Stop right there!" She commands, stepping forward and spinning my chair around so that I'm facing her. She leans forward, our faces mere inches away as she levels a meaningful glare at me. "Our relationship is _not_ a lie! You feel it, I feel it, there is no faking that part of our nature! The children of Trigon always know who their kin are, the two of us are no different."

The level of fury with which this statement is delivered is so great that I likely would have been sent staggering had I not been seated. Still, I can't help but shrink back slightly, as my powers give me that oh-so-helpful warning that 'big sis' is getting angry and can open inter dimensional wormholes at will.

No, I am not going to test my luck against her should I ever be present when she is in such a mood to actually _use_ that skill. Feel free to call me a coward; I prefer to think of it as self-preservation.

Mainly because, well, you never know just _what_ inhabits whichever dimension you end up in. It could be something simple like cannibals or some crazy alternate reality where fiction is reality.

I'll let you consider the implications at your leisure.

But I digress. It's been some time since my "Raven's not happy" alert has gone off, and even so, I suppose I find it more comforting than frightening at the moment. That she feels so strongly and is so certain about this speaks volumes to me.

"I know," I say, hoping to appease her somewhat. "I'm sorry. It was just… I just jumped to the most extreme conclusion again."

To my relief, the alarm bells ringing in my head die down, letting me know that her darkness isn't exactly looming over me anymore. For now, she's suppressing it as usual, keeping her influence at bay until she calls upon it again.

Raven, still a bit frustrated, nods. "You do have a habit of making that jump."

"Yes, I'll deal with that once I've dealt with… whatever _this_ turns out to be."

For a moment, there is silence between us, neither knowing what to say in this situation. Again, it's rather apparent that neither of us have any clue _how_ we're supposed to go about this family relationship… thing.

It seems that either she tries to hold me at arms length to give me space to grow, or she smothers me. And if I'm not trying too hard to please her, I come off as an utter ponce and might as well be telling her to go 'piss off'.

So, when two socially awkward half demons with anger issues try to iron out their relationship, what happens then?

Well, _this_. It's not the first time this has happened, most of our little spats – which have, for the most part, been minor – play out like this because of our empathy: she tries helping, I tell her I don't need it; She gets frustrated, I get defensive; then we both get angry; and then we both realize that we've completely made a mess of things.

Rinse and repeat.

I love my sister dearly, make no mistake, but I just _can't_ let her try to help me on this. It's my past, a part of my life that I thought I knew.

But, evidently, I don't know a fairly good portion of the story.

I just need… something. I need to get away from this damn computer, out of my room, away from my overly concerned sister and teammates, I need…

Oh, sod it; I need to take a bloody walk.

Standing abruptly, I step away from my desk, prompting a rather startled reaction from Raven, who, no doubt, thinks I'm about to storm out.

Best nip that. "I'm going to a walk," I inform her, inwardly wincing at the tone. It sounds like I'm being short with her, probably not going to do me any favors.

Sure enough, she catches my wrist before I make it to the door. "Please, don't storm off on my account," she says with a hint of regret. Damn, now I really feel like a heel.

"It's not because of you, I just… I just need a break from this place for a bit." I say with a nod toward my desk. "I've been driving myself insane with this little crusade of mine and… well, you and the others are right, I'm basically reverting. I just need to step away for a bit. Clear my head, so to speak."

I can feel her hesitation, a brief moment of uncertainty as to whether or not to let me go, whether or not I need her to be my protector or to let me branch out on my own and solve my problems on my own – something that Raven is quite familiar with in her own right.

That familiarity makes her decision particularly difficult, I've heard _that_ story before.

A vision of the future, prophesizing that Raven would bring about the destruction of this world by unleashing our father unto it, haunted her from the day she was born until she was ultimately forced to reveal it to the original Titans. It was they who helped her beat him back, but he's not gone.

He never truly was and never truly will be.

She fears that I will retreat inward, that I will tread the same path that she once did. And yet, she steps carefully, as we both struggle to navigate the muddy waters that our relationship is.

For all her faults, for all our moments of uncertainty, she has done an admirable job in caring for me while simultaneously allowing me to be myself.

I suspect it is that line of thinking that caused her to eventually release my wrist, instead moving her hand up to my shoulder.

"Just…" Raven struggles to find the words for a moment, I can feel a whirlpool of emotions playing out within her. "Please be careful."

She's as cautious and protective as always, but the sentiment is not lost on me, despite what some might say of my seeming lack of emotions.

A small smile is all I really feel up to in my current state of mind, but it's enough to let her know that I bear her no ill will. "I will be, I promise."

Rather than leave immediately, I turn to my closet and rummage through the various bits of clothing, searching for something.

The entire point of taking a walk is for me to clear my mind, I can hardly do that if I'm in full uniform as I walk through Jump City's ever active nighttime scene: people will start watching and grow anxious.

When the Teen Titans come out at night, in full gear, it's not because we're 'letting the good times roll.'

Damn it, Garfield and Victor's constant repetition of that phrase is beginning to corrupt my mind! I _really_ need to get out.

"Dressing in civilian clothing," Raven notes as I press a button on the wall, which causes a divider to block me from her view as I strip and change. "Smart."

"If there's anything I know, it's how to go unnoticed to the average person." I reply as I slip on a pair of jeans. I debate on whether or not to wear my boots or the tennis shoes that Richard gave me, deciding on the latter.

Cynical though it might be, I'd rather have at least _some_ of my combat equipment. Just in case.

I throw on a black t-shirt and press the button again, retracting the divider as I reach back into the closet for one of only a few things that give some hint to a more mature, thoughtful mind behind the mischievous jade eyes of our resident changeling.

A lightweight cotton, with thumb holes at the ends of its sleeves, black zip up hoodie, bearing what seemed to be an upside down, silver bordered pentagon with the letters "LA" standing prominently over a silver crown – Garfield had gifted me a hoodie supporting the local hockey team.

When I asked why the Kings, he simply stated that we were closer to LA than Anaheim, and the Kings played what he described as a 'gritty, ground and pound' game, something that reminded him a lot of my own amateur fighting style. It was quite nice of him to make that connection, actually, and I made sure to inform him that I appreciated the gesture.

Of course, he _did_ grin widely and note that he also felt that the sheer beauty of me going from a Leafs hoodie to a Kings one was hilarious when one factored in the Gretzky incident in 1993, but the reference sailed over my head until he sat me down and explained it to me.

He also mentioned something about watching a game, but hasn't said anything since.

Whatever. It's unimportant until he brings it up again. The point is that I have a hoodie again and it feels… rather nice. I mean no offense to the family in Toronto, but this one is much more comfortable thanks to the newer, more lightweight material.

Lightweight makes for more mobility, after all, though the Leafs hoodie was likely heavier due to the much cooler climate.

But I digress… _Again_.

I glance at the clock and note, with satisfaction, that it's late afternoon; on the crowded streets, very few would even bother giving the scruffy looking kid in a jacket a second glance as long as I didn't act too inconspicuous. The only thing about me that would stick out at this point was, well, my eyes.

Richard and Victor are working on contact lenses that would serve to, at minimum, dull my glowing irises so that they wouldn't be as noticeable. Until then, the only way for me to hide them would be sunglasses.

I don't wear sunglasses; they dull my vision and tend to skew colors, making some of the little things more difficult to notice. Just a personal preference, so please, continue wearing them if you see fit. Far be it from me to influence people's fashion choices.

Oh, well. Make due with what I have. If anyone asks, I could just say that I'm dressing up like myself for Halloween and wanted to try out special 'eye glowing' lenses.

That's coming up, right? Yes, next month.

Spectacular. Vaguely legitimate excuse achieved.

But Raven is still worried, that much I can feel it. I'm not sure if she's afraid that I'll leave angry, never to return, or that I might stumble into trouble.

Quite frankly, the latter is more likely, which is the very reason that I'm going incognito, as it where.

"I'll be fine," I assure her as I pass her and open the door, stepping out into the hallway with her trailing behind. "I'll have Victor send me to an area I know, I'll keep my head down, my hood up and I'll be home after an hour or two. Everything will be fine."

* * *

Being able to walk through the busy streets of Jump City, especially its night life, without being noticed is a luxury I hadn't been afforded since the first several hours of my arrival nearly two months ago.

I never thought I'd say it, but it seems that discarding my old hoodie and shedding my cloak have both worked in my favor.

Granted, it does help that my appearance, while still somewhat scruffy, is nowhere near as bad as… well, you know.

Three weeks between showers, and all…

At least now I could walk through the crowds without attracting those stares and the whole 'parting of the seas' that people had done previously, my reputation no doubt making them fearful that I was prone to snapping at the slightest bit of irritation.

To be fair, there is _some_ level of truth to that claim. I wasn't exactly a model hero before that fateful night at the church.

Sending people to the psych wards for crimes such as petty theft didn't exactly speak of a very rational or sensible individual, so one could hardly blame people who were aware of my history for giving me a wide birth whenever I walked down the street.

Tonight, little to no attention was on me, a welcome change, if a bit odd. Actually, it was extremely odd the way these people were suddenly tensing, I could feel fear rolling off them, nearly drowning me in a tidal wave of this feeling of utter terror.

What the hell? What changed? They're not looking at me, they're looking at something past me, over my shoulder, and up as if it were looming over them like some sort of giant.

What the hell is going on here?

Turning to look over my shoulder in search of whatever the source of this fear may be, my vision is suddenly filled by a fist! Stars burst behind my eyes as I am thrown backwards and into the windshield of a parked car!

My vision spins, a groan slips through my lips as I try to remember just which planet I'm currently on, when I hear a taunting voice pierce through the fog that has enveloped my head.

"We've been lookin' for you, snot-breath!" The speaker sounded like a young teen, almost childlike in his taunting. I know this voice from somewhere, from a recording in the Titans' database, I'm sure.

But he's not alone.

A lower, heavier voice speaks up, growling as its owner cracks his knuckles. "Been waitin' _years _to pay you back for Toronto, punk!"

My hand shoots to my pocket in search of my communicator; I can feel blood running down my face, the shards of glass digging into my back, my world is still a blurry mess!

I'm not taking chances! I'm part of a team now, I should utilize my resources to maximize my chance at victory and…

Where the hell is my communicator?

I could've sworn I had it earlier; yes, it was on my belt. The one that I wear as part of my uniform. The one that I took off in exchange for street clothes and left in my room.

All the way back at the Cave.

Oh, _fuck me._


End file.
